


Our Kingdom

by Musetta



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musetta/pseuds/Musetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the rule of King Gerard, werewolves are hunted for slaughter throughout the Kingdom, almost to the point of extinction. But when a boy of the small, outlying village of Beacon Hills stumbles upon a werewolf, wounded and dying, he can't seem to bring him in. There is something suspiciously human about this creature he had always been taught to dismiss as a mindless animal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thank you for reading! I am new to the Teen Wolf fandom and apologize if this is an AU that has been done to death. At the moment, I am not certain how long the overall work will be as it is still a WIP, but after this the chapters will get longer, I promise!

Stiles knelt down low in the brown and brittle leaves, closely examining a broken branch. His fingertips lightly brushed against the leaves, watching the way they had been bent ad broken. Crisp, brown and gold leaves were shaken off, littering the forest floor. The fall was the best time to hunt. The leaves were a perfect way to follow a stumbling and injured quarry. It broke his heart to do it, but the doe he had hit was scrawny and already limping from a previous injury. It wouldn't last long anyway, and Stiles would be certain to put it to good use after death. 

From the way that it was thrashing about, Stiles could tell he was drawing close to where the deer had met its end. He checked the sun. Still plenty of time to find the thing and get back to the village before nightfall. Not that he didn't know his way around the woods, but Beacon Hills was a rather small village on the outskirts of the Kingdom. Relative to the rest of the country, it was rather vulnerable. Its roads, unwatched. Marauders and highwaymen were not uncommon outside the protection of the village gates, preying on those who walked alone or unprotected. Even in times of peace such as these, it paid to be wary. Stiles hurried off down the gentle slope, following the path of the doe which was becoming more obvious as it drew closer to the end.  
Stiles found the deer in a secluded glen. Looking around, Stiles privately and grimly thought that it really wasn't a bad place to die. Golden sunlight filtered through broad, leafy trees that grew around the cliff side. Water trickled about a steady brook that fed a small clear and cold lake pressed up against the rocks. Despite being late in the season, little yellow flowers were still in bloom. Stiles bent down over the body, checking to make sure that it didn't need to be put out of its misery. 

 

A low, rumbling growl like deep thunder suddenly struck up, causing Stiles to jump in alarm.  
He reeled about, brandishing his hunting knife awkwardly. He groped around the soft grass, eyes wide and alert for a predator. Inwardly, he cursed himself for being so careless. One of the biggest threats of hunting in these woods was another animal that also picked up on your target injured and dying. A wildcat, or perhaps a stray wolf driven savage from hunger. He heard it again, and his hair stood on end. Whatever it was, it was close. But... it didn't sound like a threat. When Stiles was younger and somehow even _more_ reckless than he was today, he and a childhood friend himself themselves in the company of an angered mother bear. That day, they learned that black bear cubs did _not_ make good playmates, and how to recognize the sound of an enraged predator. And this... didn't sound that way. Not quite.  
Stiles heard it again, a gravelly sort of roar. A strained, drawn-out note at the end. One that was almost... _pained_.  
Stiles' hand shook on the hilt of the knife as he crept forward. The wall of the cliffside naturally created a curve, large boulders having fallen away due to years of erosion. Beginning at the top, several feet above as a hairline crack, a crevasse opened on the cliffside to the very bottom now wide and protected cave.  
He could hear it breathing now, harsh and ragged. It was a large creature, and there was no doubt now that it was hurt. The howling sounded closest to that of a wolf, but like no wolf Stiles had ever heard before. The smart thing to do probably would have been to back away, leave the doe and hurry back to the village. Perhaps with luck his snares might have caught a rabbit or two and he would not have to go home empty-handed. But curiosity had him now, and he could not be deterred. Slowly, cautiously, Stiles round a large round boulder to the mouth of the cavern. But it was not a fallen wolf or bear that he saw; rather it was a very dirty but very obviously human body. The man was naked from the waist up. He wore a pair of trousers so dirty and torn it was impossible to tell what sort of make they were originally. He was lying on the damp stone floor, his breathing so heavy and labored it could have come from the lungs of a creature three times his size. Still, he was a man. And that was enough to cause Stiles to jump into action.  
“Oh, gods! Are you alright? Hey!” He ran forward, dropping his knife as he went. He skidded across the rough stone, putting his hand on the cold shoulder. At once, there was a fierce snarl and a flash of fangs. The next moment passed in a blur but Stiles was on his back in the dewy grass, his heart beating out of his chest. An arm had flung around, throwing him with all the ease of a rag doll. He stared with wide-eyes now at what he realized was not a man at all, but what was unmistakably a werewolf.

Stiles had never seen one before, only heard about them in legends and stories. Always they were cruel and malicious creatures that skulked around mist-laden woods at twilight, lurked about ruined castles or stalked hapless maidens. That in mind, it was a rather odd sight to see one in broad daylight, and in such a dismal state. Along with the other mythical creatures of the world, werewolves were always depicted as symbols of power. Seeing one injured, weak and alone seemed... wrong, somehow. His chest rose and fell painfully slow and staggered. His skin was pale and sallow, his eyes just barely closed. His body was scuffed and scarred with red lash-marks. A clawed hand grasped at his side, and Stiles gasped at the sight. He held a deep, ugly wound at his side, just above the hip. Stiles could see the broken end of an arrow protruding from the blackened, shredded flesh oozing with pus and the deep red of fresh blood.  
For a long while, the two didn't break gaze. Stiles was captivated. Dimly glowing blue eyes had him stunned. Now, he was the deer before the arrow. He saw the fangs, the crease of the forehead and nose, the claws and the _power_ , and he knew he was in the presence of his natural predator.  
But still, he didn't run. Finally, the werewolf's eyes slid closed, and it slumped over, unable to hold.  
He wouldn't last three days. 

Stiles sat there for a long while, contemplating the extraordinary occurrence that he had come across. Beacon Hills was, after all a thoroughly ordinary little village on the outskirts of the Kingdom. People grew up and lived and died and would never be remembered or sung about in tales or legends. His perfectly ordinary fate loomed over him now, as he leaned against a boulder and watched a fantastical creature wasting away before him.  
Werewolves were man-eaters. The historical enemy of the ruling family Argent. To shelter one, to help one, to do anything other than report them to a figure of authority within the Kingdom was in its nature treasonous.  
But... Stiles couldn't just let him die.

He checked the clearing for anyone watching, thinking quickly. He turned and raced back to he village, going quickly the way that he came.  
Beacon Hills was a small farming town. During high noon of the harvest season, just about all of its inhabitants were out laboring in the field, bringing in the crop. Harvesting, storing, stockpiling for the long winter months. The small town square with the tavern, market, and communal hall. As the son of the town's Knight Resident, Stiles' home wasn't too far from the center square. He raced inside, scattering the goats and chickens that picked about inside the stone gate. Like most in Beacon Hills, his house wasn't terribly large, and it didn't take long at all to find what he needed. Stiles emptied his satchel, filling it instead with flint and steel, kindling, linen bandages, a few utensils and a small cooking pot.  
With the extra supplies, his progression back to the woods was considerably slower. For a brief period he was certain that he had lost the way to the glen altogether. It was a rather sheltered place after all, hidden by trees and tree branches that resembled low-lying shrubs in a certain light. When he did discover the place again, he found his werewolf curled up the same way, sheltered in the cave twenty feet from the deer which had not yet begun to attract flies. "Okay..." Stiles took a breath to steady himself. He had a thick wool blanket unfurled and ready. The werewolf was on his side, seemingly out cold. Still, he felt jittery and unsure. After briefly talking himself in and out of it three times, Stiles quickly spread the blanket over the werewolf's cold body. He leapt back at once. As expected, the man recoiled and snapped. His eyes flew open, watching Stiles with pinprick-sharp pupils. There was another long moment where neither of them moved. Stiles' hands were splayed open, in a nonthreatening gesture. Slowly, the wolf gripped the edge of the blanket, and rolled over, wrapping it tight around himself in the process. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief. This was how Stiles found himself dragging the deer carcass across the meadow and into the cave, and set to work skinning, cleaning, and carving the animal with no intention of bringing it back to the village. Though he was sure that the werewolf's injuries needed seeing to, he was clearly weak from hunger. Keeping his distance and making a meal seemed at the moment to be a far safer endeavor than getting up close to examine that arrow. 

_Though, trying to treat him once he's regained some strength probably isn't much better_. He realized grimly. If it were a person, perhaps Stiles could rely o a sense of gratitude to make him understand that Stiles was trying to help him, not hurt him. But despite his seemingly human appearance, this werewolf was no better than an injured tiger or bear. It was an animal, bloodthirsty and mindless. 

Preparing the deer was slow work, taking up most of the afternoon. He constructed a small fire, adding clean water from the lake outside and simmered the roasted venison to a thick broth. "You're probably hungry, right?" No response. "If you're strong enough, you ought to to try this."  
The sun was well on its way to setting now, and it had been quite a while since the werewolf answered. "Hey? You still with me, Wolf?" Stiles swallowed, shifting where he sat. Slowly, Stiles approached him once again. The werewolf was slumped against the cavern wall. By all means, he now appeared to be quite human. The coarse hackles that had framed his jaw had mysteriously vanished, leaving only a rugged shadow of stubble on his jaw and neck. His face was angular and handsome, his brow now smooth. His body, though ravaged by starvation still showed signs of once being remarkably healthy. The realization of that tugged at Stiles' sympathy. He had fallen on some hard times indeed. "Look, you really need to eat something..." Sitting cross-legged, Stiles set the pot in between them, letting the scent rouse the werewolf somewhat. The werewolf looked up at him blearily once again, and he could have sworn that he saw the barest hint of a nod. Stiles took the opportunity to hold a spoon to his lips, and to his great surprise and satisfaction he accepted it. To Stiles' great relief, the wolf swallowed whenever the broth was presented to his lips. He didn't open his eyes very much. When he did, it only seemed to be the same gentle rolling back and forth on the brink of consciousness. It was slow going, but in this way, Stiles coaxed two small bowls of broth down him before he would take no more. Full and sleepy, he was curled up on his side. Stiles watched him guiltily, knowing that the best thing to do would be to try and treat his injuries while his guard was down and he was too weak to fight back. Still, it took quite a bit to overcome every natural instinct that he possessed as a human being to approach the animal put on this earth to slaughter his kind. Eventually, Stiles reasoned that he would have to earn its trust first. 

All the same, Stiles brewed one last pot of broth, which he left on the warm coals of the fire. The sun had truly begun to set now, and if Stiles didn't leave soon he would be stuck wandering the woods in the dark.  
“Don't die before the morning.” Stiles murmured to the werewolf, who despite his human appearance possibly couldn't even understand human speech at all. In addition to the blanket, Stiles shrugged off his autumn coat, presenting it to the Wolf to help keep off the dark's chill. Perhaps it was the red-orange glow of the evening sun settling over the glen, but Stiles couldn't help but imagine that some of the color had returned to his werewolf's cheeks.  


-

“Nothing, huh?” His father asked grimly. He sat in the corner of the room, casually sharpening his sword. He hadn't needed to use it in years, not since the last war had ended. Stiles liked to think that the fact that it was barely used was a sign that he did an excellent job as keeper of the peace in the little village town of Beacon Hills. Most issues that arose were domestic, and being a well-liked individual, most disputes easily settled by verbal mediation rather than violence. They were small and insignificant enough that any marauders would overlook them in favor of more exciting conquests. The last time Stiles had actually seen him use that sword was when an old mountain lion came down to the nearby woods, making trouble.  
“Ah, no. Sorry.” Stiles lingered by the door, trying his best to keep a light and casual expression. It must have been satisfactory, since his father returned to tending to his work.  
“Couldn't say I'm terribly surprised. You always were hopeless with that knife.” There was a huff of laughter to his voice though, and as Stiles expected it wasn't too big of a deal. They didn't depend on Stiles' hunting to survive after all. Being on the King's salary actually left them quite well off in the town, comparatively. The people of the town were farmers. They worked the king's land, and in return kept a portion of their crops while the rest were sent to the Royal City in taxes. These were the ones who struggled to get by, to have food to eat throughout the winter. Stiles meanwhile always had clothes on his back, food on his plate and the incalculable luxury of leisure time to spend hunting in the woods.  
Still, it would have been quite the triumphant moment to be able to finally bring home a substantial kill. The best cuts of meat could have been sold to the butcher, as well as the hide to the tanner. The leftover meat could have been dried and smoked to last them throughout the winter, so they wouldn't end up eating potatoes every night like they had last year. 

“Any trouble in town today?” Stiles asked, going over to the wash basin to begin preparing dinner.  
“Just the usual.”  
“Smith drunk in town square again?”  
“I had another talk with the tavern master not to let him drink himself blind before noon.” His father chuckled, placing the sword back on its usual stand over the fire. Stiles smiled to himself, peeling a handful of small potatoes for the pot. No news was how he liked his father's news the best. As much as he bemoaned an ordinary villager's life, he also knew in his heart of hearts that any trouble would see his father on the front line of it. Sometimes, life in the kingdom was hard for the bottom rung. The noblemen feasted and sang songs in their glorious, feast-laden halls while the others bent and scraped to survive the year. But at the end of the day... they were safe. It was the King's army that kept the marauder tribes of the Western moors from raiding their towns and setting them ablaze. The power of Gerard Argent was to be feared, and respected by all. 

After a few more drinks and some laughter with his father, Stiles retired for the night. There was much to do in the morning after all, and he had never been more thrilled for the sunrise.

-

Before Stiles could return to the woods the next day, he had a few chores he would have to take care of first. Among these errands, Stiles took a trip to the edge of town to see the healer, Deaton.  
Deaton came to town only a few months after Stiles' mother passed away. For quite a while, Stiles had irrationally and privately resented him for this. After all, Deaton was very good at what he did. If he had arrived just a few weeks earlier, he might have saved her.  
Stiles took the dry dirt road that wound out of town, following as it slowly became more grown-over to only the wagon-tracks of Deaton's supply cart. His home was a small, modest cottage made of mortared stones and a thatched roof. He kept to a policy of only charging for his services what the people could afford, which often wasn't much at all. Deaton's ways were strange. His methods of healing the body involved herbs and powders. He insisted on nourishing the ill instead of utilizing bloodletting to balance the humors. In larger villages and towns, Deaton would most likely be chased off for such heretical ideas. Beacon Hills however, was bested in its sense of superstition only by its sense of apathy. Because of this, the healer's existence here was quiet and peaceful as anyone's. 

Stiles knocked, feeling a little skittish. It was hard not to, with the dry autumn leaves swirling among tall grass. It was quiet out here, and the afternoon sun no longer provided the heavy, comforting heat of summertime. Now, it was cool and the wind carried a very distinct chill. Still, he felt a distinct thrill from arriving for a visit. There was something else he needed from the him today. 

“Come in.” 

The inside of Deaton's hut did little to dissuade Stiles' nerves. It was a dim and dusty place, a small fireplace in the corner providing little warmth. Large tables were cluttered with bits of this and that. Glass tubes, various stones, powders, jars of small pickled animal specimens, skeletons, and a large scaly lizard that Stiles was certain to be another model until it turned to him, blinking its beady eyes rapidly. 

“Ah, Stiles. Here for your father's tonic?” Deaton smiled. He was half-hidden in the shadows, standing at a far table where he was measuring out large quantities of black ash on a scale.  
“Um, yes, thank you.” Stiles nodded, not taking his eyes off of the massive lizard. 

“I was expecting you. Its a good thing our meetings are a regular occurrence.” He said, leaning over a pewter cauldron sitting in the fire. “Hamish's cattle blight has been keeping me busy most of the week.” He ladled a portion of the drought into a bottle, capping it tight. “The man let his water supply become contaminated. It put the entire herd in danger.” He shook his head, sealing the cork of the bottle with sealing wax. The lizard waddled off, and Stiles sat down on a stool, watching the healer work. Along with human troubles, he also often saw to animals. Stiles plucked at his trousers a bit, trying to sound nonchalant with his question.

“Well, you know on the topic of animal injuries...” Stiles drawled, doing his best to sound terribly casual. “I was wondering if you could help me out with a problem I was thinking of recently.”  
“Oh?” He placed the bottle in front of Stiles, accepting the few gold coins from him in return. As one of the few families that could afford to pay him in real currency, rather than goods, Deaton had more than enough time to listen.  
“Well, I heard a story about this man. Some hunters once mistook his horse for a deer and tried to shoot it. It... it got really sick and weak after that because they didn't know how to treat him. What ah... what would you have recommended doing?” Stiles was quite proud of himself for the plausibility of his cover story. Normally he was quite a terrible liar.  
“Well, I would first have to know where the horse was shot-”  
“Oh, about... here.” Stiles gestured to his abdomen, just above the hip. The healer scrutinized Stiles closely, perhaps trying to translate that to a horses anatomy.  
“Well, I would say first and foremost the arrow must be removed. Horses are strong creatures, but it wont be able to heal until that arrowhead is out.” Stiles nodded, listening with rapt attention.  
“Now, this would not be an easy thing to do. Horses are very powerful animals. I don't think I need to tell you that one which is injured and delirious with pain will have difficulty discerning an effort to help it with one to hurt it. Your friend... he would have to make certain this horse trusts him completely.” Stiles squirmed where he sat, a little uncomfortable now.  
“Alright, yeah. Thanks.” He pulled away, simply wanting to be far from him at the moment.  
"That's not all, Stiles.” He said softly.  
“Oh?”  
"More experienced hunters, they will occasionally work with poison to take down larger prey. For that, a special elixir would be needed to drive the poison from the poor creatures body.”  
Now, Stiles' skin was really starting to crawl. There were the rumors, after all. The whispers and murmurs that the healer was a man of the dark arts. Every few years or so some hot headed youth would always speak up, try and bring together a large enough following to storm his house in the night and drive him out.  
“Should such a misfortune befall anything or anyone under your care, I would implore you to seek my help.” He said quietly. “Otherwise, I fear their future is a rather grim one indeed.” The silence that settled between the two after that was a rather uncomfortable and strange one. Stiles briefly considered that Deaton might have detected his lie.  
No, there was simply no way he could know the truth. Stiles thanked Deaton and awkwardly excused himself.  
On the way back into town however, Stiles was forced to face the very real truth of what he was doing. The ruling family Argent were the mortal enemies of the werewolf kind. The Capitol city of Corach was famous for the grand hunt of the Knights. How they would scour the wilderness for the werewolf scourge that threatened the lives of poor farmers and towns such as Beacon Hills. The monsters were brought back in chains to the giant stone Coliseum, and viciously, heroically slaughtered in front of a crowd of thousands. That being how things were, to harbor or try to protect a werewolf could possibly be seen as an act of treason.  
But... what else could he have done? Now that he had already helped Wolf once, he couldn't just abandon him.  
As Stiles trooped across the damp earth back to the glen, he briefly entertained the very real possibility that his werewolf might not have survived the night. It would make perfect sense, after all. He looked like hell when Stiles left him. Though his wound didn't seem too bad, he had clearly undergone some serious mistreatment. And even minor injuries could prove fatal once infected. If Wolf died on his own, Stiles would be off the hook. Still, the thought certainly didn't make him any happier. The more he dwelt on the idea, in fact, the more panicked he became. By the time he reached the slope down to the dell, he was practically in a sprint. 

However, when he reached the cave he found that Wolf was still very much alive. The bowl of stew had been licked clean, and the werewolf was curled a bit closer to the embers of last night's fire, the blanket wrapped tight around his otherwise naked torso.  
“Hey, you're alright!” 

Stiles was greeted by a vicious snarl.  
“You sound way better too!” Unphased, he sat down on the opposite side of the fire, keeping a tight grip on his knife just the same. “I hope you like rabbit. I found these two, they look great!” Though Stiles was a bit panicked about being in his presence, he had always been taught not to let a dangerous animal know that you were afraid. Wolf didn't move, and still seemed to be resting with his back to Stiles. Still, he didn't seem to be strong enough to openly attack him just yet. Stiles took the opportunity to talk aloud a bit as he worked. Though he wracked his brain, the legends of the werewolves, never seemed to touch upon whether or not they were creatures capable of human speech. Not even the very powerful or old ones. All the stories he could remember made them sound like bloodthirsty, simple-minded animals. Wolves that used the guise of the human to terrorize villages and run off with their women. Regardless, Stiles talked aloud as he worked just the same. Even if he was unresponsive, it was nice having someone to talk with other than the goats.  
Stiles didn't have many friends in Beacon Hills. Any others his age were all mostly from the families of farmers, now hard at work in the fields. There was a rift, of sorts between the classes; between those who benefited directly from the king's coffers, and those who went hungry during the winter in order to fill them. The young farmers tended to band together. They laughed and drank and shared their private jokes. Anyone of the merchant class who might be more welcoming to Stiles' company just didn't quite fit his age range. The Blacksmith's children were only eight and eleven. The artisans were all much older and making families of their own.  
“I suppose it's no wonder I spend so much time in the woods.” Stiles noted aloud, stirring the pot aimlessly. “I haven't had a close friend since... I must have been eight or nine. His name was Scott. You probably would have liked him." Stiles nodded to Wolf, pleased to find he had actually opened his eyes to watch Stiles blearily. Encouraged, he continued. "We used to play in the woods all the time together. But he was always pretty sick. If he ever pushed himself too far, his throat would close up. He wouldn't be able to breathe. One night, he finally did. He, he pushed himself too far." Stiles bit his lip, feeling the old stab of ache. Lady McCall moved away quite soon after that, having gone off to Corach in shame and in grieving. Stiles shook his head, changing the subject before he could go on to further depress himself pointlessly. 

“You know, you ought to let me take a look at that wound.” Stiles poked at the cooking rabbit meat. Wolf looked like he might soon nod off again, and he was hoping to get some sort of confirmation that he wouldn't be gutted for trying. “I mean I know I'm not a healer or anything, but at least we could try and get that arrow out. It... well it might get infected, you know.” He murmured, glancing up at Wolf. “You would trust me to help, wouldn't you?”  
No response. 

Stiles sighed quietly, turning the meat over on the coals.  
After a few more fruitless efforts to get Wolf to react to his words, Stiles could only assume that he could not in fact, understand him. Perhaps the legends were right after all. He gave Stiles quite a surprise however, once the meal was ready. With what seemed to be a herculean effort, Wolf pushed himself upright into a sitting position, turning to face Stiles directly now. Figuring that Wolf didn't have long before he dozed off again, Stiles prepared a bowl and set about the task of feeding him once again. 

It was a bit easier to get Wolf to eat this time, as he was quite a bit more awake. However, this also made the act of spoon-feeding him a bit more awkward. After all, it wasn't every day one saw brilliant blue eyes, such as his. It was perfectly understandable that there was something captivating about them, how he watched Stiles with an indiscernible gaze, puzzling over this human who was nursing him back to health. 

“I... I should bring you a shirt next time, huh?” Stiles said sheepishly. His thumb brushed Wolf's collarbone with the motion. His skin wasn't cold, if anything it was unusually flushed and warm. It was either the start of a fever, or perhaps the natural body heat of his kind. Wolf drew the blanket closer around himself, leaning back against the wall of the cave. His heavy eyes slid shut, looking ready for another deep sleep.  
Stiles fumbled a bit, suddenly aware at the closeness of their proximity. Close enough that his thumb was still resting against the nape of Wolf's throat. Close enough to trust him with his life. And certainly he had been before, but now Wolf had consciously permitted it. Either he was sicker than Stiles realized, or slowly beginning to trust him. Stiles' eyes lowered down to where the wound was hidden behind the blanket.  
Perhaps he could really do it.  
He could make him better.

-

That was the first night Stiles dream changed.  
Usually, it was some variation of the same tale. Stiles finding himself with a different lot in life, a nobleman riding a white steed in bright armor, set out on some valiant errand. A life of adventure, of freedom. One where the hills in the distance where not stationary bits of ever-constant landscape, but worlds to be traversed and explored. It was a fantasy so common for him that the dream tended to manifest and reoccur once every few weeks or so. Sometimes it was a dragon. Sometimes he was riding a dragon. Tonight, he stormed a tall, ruined castle in the middle of a dark moor. Where a throne room should have been, saw without the slightest bit of surprise, that his enemy was an enormous black wolf. The size of a small house, it took up the entire room. Its fur was a thick, glossy black. It's eyes, a brilliant burning blue that left trails in their wake through the dark.  
He readied himself for attack, but instead found himself suddenly quite disarmed. His hands pressed against a very naked, human torso. This part of his dream wasn't too unusual either, but always it was the buxom form of the same beautiful noblewoman, the one with the strawberry-blonde hair. But this body was hard and firm. It was darkened by the sun, rather than soft and pale. His lips touched a strong neck, rough with stubble. Knees slid together, hips aligned and ground into place. At once, a sudden surge of warmth overtook him. He could feel strong arms grasping him, dominating him, _owning_ him. The distant pain of fangs that sank into his skin, and instead of fear what came was a moan of the sheerest _wanting_. The nameless form slid against him, their bodies moving smoothly together, until there was no division of where Stiles ended and his beautiful stranger began.  
Stiles woke up flushed and in shock. The morning air was frigid against his flaming hot skin. His body trembled as his hand grasped his chest. His heart was beating frantically. He twisted a bit in the sheets, wincing as he realized he was painfully, achingly hard. In his groggy half asleep state, he was certain that if the dream had persisted just a moment longer, he would have came. He turned his face back into the sweat dampened pillow, breathing deep. He could still see the wolf when he closed his eyes, as plain and clear as he had been in his dream. The wanting, so sinfully sweet hanging thick in his mind, electrified every end of his nerves. Not allowing himself to consider his actions just yet, his hand slid along the inside of his damp thigh. He closed his eyes tight, and the wolf was there. The tip of his index finger ghosted over the rim of his entrance, pressing against it. At once, Stiles body rocked and seized. A white hot orgasm of impossible magnitude took him in waves, spilling out into his half- clenched hand, leaving him breathless and blissful in the quiet morning.

-

Stiles didn't think too much about the meaning of dreams. There wasn't much he _could_ do to dwell on it anyway. It was a law of the Kingdom that it was a sin for two men or women of the same gender to be lovers. Though Stiles was never clear as to why this was, it was a law that always had been, and there was nothing he could do to fight it. During his march through the woods, he tucked the dream away into the far, dark corner of his mind.  
The leaves crunched underfoot as he went now. This morning in particular, each fallen leaf and blade of grass was bedecked in a delicate outline of glittering frost. As the sun made its golden ascent it was clear that the frost would not last very long at all, it was simply a sign of the changing season. Stiles briefly wondered what would be done about Wolf once winter set in. Once the snow began to pile up it would be difficult to make the walk to the glen each day. Did werewolves migrate south for the winter, as birds did? Perhaps they hibernated. Stiles checked his snares, which today were bare save for the last, which rewarded him with a very fat pheasant. As he worked, Stiles realized that he might actually become rather lonely not being able to see Wolf until the springtime. He had only been doing this for a few days now, but the change from the ordinary, the brief dip into fantasy, it was intoxicating.

“Hey, Wolf!” Stiles called out happily, rounding the large boulder that stood as the entrance to the cave. “Do you like pheasant? Because...” He trained off when he caught a strange smell coming from the cavern. Usually, it didn't smell like much of anything. A bit of moss and damp air, that was all. Today, the air was thick with a sickening, rusted sort of smell. The floor was dark and slightly sticky with a mysterious black liquid. Upon closer inspection, he realized with a swell of horror that it was dried blood, and a lot of it. Stiles found Wolf huddled in the back of the cave, his body twisted at a sickeningly unnatural way. He was breathing, but just barely. The blanket had been kicked aside, exposing his arrow wound, slashed open wide.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles searches for a cure for his werewolf, only to find more problems arrive.

Stiles looked around wildly, his heart pounding in a panic. His first thought after seeing all of the blood was that a bear or some other great animal must have come and attacked Wolf during the night. At least, this was what he considered until he saw the same blackened and dried blood caked under his long, clawed fingernails. Like a punch to the gut, Stiles realized that Wolf had done this to himself, trying to remove the arrow. In the thick of the gaping wound, he could see it still wedged there. The ends of cruel-looking barbs embedded into his flesh. Whoever had shot him, they had clearly not intended on it being easily removed. Blue, sickly-looking ribbons of veins bloomed out around the wound. The very look of it, the stench of it wreaked of infection, disease and death caused Stiles sway on the spot, his head light from nausea. 

Wolf was still breathing, but it was very shallow and slight. He was fading, and fast. 

Wolf's one arm lay stretched out, and at the tip of his claw was a symbol carved into the soft rock beneath him. Three spirals, joining at the middle. Stiles had one hand on Wolf's back as he tried to interpret the image. Wolf was dying. His pain must have been unbearable. But still, he took the time to carve a symbol onto the rock? Stiles clung to the hope that this _had_ to be significant. It had to be the key to keeping Wolf alive... somehow.

Still, the symbol was alien to him. What did it mean? Stiles rubbed his face in his hand. There was only one person in the entire town who could possibly know. 

"Hey," Stiles' voice was trembling more than he expected. "Hey, are you still w-with me?" He tried to keep himself together as he knelt down next to Wolf. His hand was pressed against Wolf's back.  
"I'm... I'm going to get help. Please... please just hold on."

Once more, Stiles found himself sprinting at a breakneck pace through the town. Deaton might not be able to help at all, but he had to trust that hope.  
Stiles raced out of the woods, cutting across a field to the path of the healer's cottage.

If he couldn't... it would be the second grave Stiles had ever had to dig.  
Birds flew up around him as he tore through the grass, shrieking in alarm.  
Another body left cold on the ground.  
All because of him. 

As if the birds himself had alerted him, Stiles found Deaton waiting outside when he arrived. Stiles fell forward, his hands clamped over his knees as he drew in deep breaths.  
“You were right... I need, I need... you have to give... to me-” He was aware he sounded like a lunatic, but each breath felt like a knife being wedged snugly into his lungs.  
“Calm down Stiles.” Deaton ordered sharply. He grabbed Stiles by the elbow, steering him inside. “What do you need?”  
He closed the door behind them, shutting and securing the shutters of the windows. “I- I need the antidote! It's like you said, exactly like you said he- he's sick and _dying_ and I can't-”  
“Stiles!” He was interrupted sharply. Deaton's eyes were very wide, his mouth set into a tight, thin line. “Now listen to me very closely. You know very well the laws of the kingdom.”  
Stiles nodded weakly. Deaton set a mug in front of him of cool, clear tea. Without hesitation, Stiles seized the cup and slugged it down. He almost gagged. It stung like fire going down his throat and caused his sinuses to crackle and burn.  
“Then, I would advise you to _watch what you say_.” He said slowly and carefully. “Now. What do you need?” He enunciated each word carefully. Stiles took a piece of charcoal sitting on the table, and drew the rune onto the surface of the table.  
Three spirals, connected at the center. 

“I thought so.” Deaton said quietly, retreating to the far side of the room. “Finish the tea.”  
Stiles grimaced at it, but he simply didn't have the breath to waste in arguing. Deaton removed a wooden chest. Even with Stiles' heart pounding against his ribcage, he could notice that it was a finely crafted thing. Solid, thick mahogany with a large iron lock.  
“Now, your _friend_ is suffering from a poison, not a physical injury. A flower called wolfsbane.” Deaton sifted through a variety of potions, all of them sealed with wax caps in little glass vials. “You will need to pour half of this onto the affected area. Immediately after, remove whatever it is that is lodged in the body. I'm guessing a knife, or an arrow.” He placed it on the counter. “The rest must be consumed.” There wasn't much to the potion. Like the others, it was sealed tight. A yellowing label around the middle bore a strange symbol on it. 

“Do what you must. And then, I expect you to return here. My payment for this tonic is an explanation." Deaton said quite sternly. "Are we in agreement?' Stiles nodded once. 

-

Stiles didn't remember the run back from Deaton's cottage back to the glen. Perhaps it was exhaustion slowly getting to him, or the blinding fear pumping adrenaline hot through his veins. The next thing he could remember was his knees scraping against the stone floor of the cave. Wolf was lying just where he had been left, his body cold and still. Stile broke the wax seal with his teeth, tearing out the cork in the same fast motion. Following Deaton's instruction, Stiles did his best to steady his trembling hand and pour the tonic over the wound. Upon contact with the flesh, the clear liquid sizzled and smoked alarmingly. Stiles was barely aware of tears streaming down his cheeks as he gripped the shaft of the dark red arrow. Though the barbs seemed to have dug deep into his skin, when he pulled it was like removing the arrow from gluey porridge. Stiles doubled over, trying not to be sickened by the action. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes. He couldn't handle needles. He couldn't handle barbs, metal in flesh, deep wounds. But he couldn't afford to pass out now. Wolf was convulsing. His arm flew out, catching the wall of the cave. Sparks flew as his claws dug down the side, leaving inch-deep rivets in the solid stone. He reared back his head and howled, shaking the stone.  
Biting back his fear, Stiles gripped Wolf's stubbly chin, trying to pull him steady. If he was going to survive, he would have to drink the rest. Wolf's chin was clenched tight, his body heaving from the pain. In a fit of desperation, Stiles drank the remaining half of the elixir. He grasped Wolf's head, wedging a thumb on either side into the crook of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Stiles lunged forward, making a perfect seal of their lips and forcing the potion in. If at first Wolf was bad, now he grew far worse. Stiles had to clamp his lips together, forcing his nose shut so he would have no choice but to swallow. Tears stung Stiles' eyes. It would not occur to him until much later that a close slip of his teeth was all it would take to condemn him forever. 

After several long minutes, Wolf quieted down, his thrashing ceased. His pulse steadied, and a deep, easy breathing returned. Stiles doubled over, scrubbing the sweat and tears from his face. Each breath twisted the knife in his lungs, but after Stiles' run he could barely work up the energy to walk forty feet from the cave to the lake for water. After taking a moment to gather himself, Stiles looked over at Wolf again. The ugly, dark wound was now shiny and pink, new skin covering the previously gaping hole. The vile looking arrow tip lay off to the side, coated in blood and viscera. The worst, Stiles dearly hoped, was now over.  
Still, knew he couldn't leave Wolf alone tonight.  
After a short rest to finally catch his breath, Stiles spent the day fretting about the cave, bringing in firewood for the night, and using fur pelts from his previous catches and woven grass to construct a crude pallet for Wolf to lie on. Stiles made some rags and soaked them in the lake. Wolf had been sleeping peacefully for hours now, with no sign of change. The blood was quickly drying, and before long would stain. Nervous for a new reason now, Stiles sat beside him awkwardly. Gooseflesh rose on Wolf's skin as the cool, wet rag touched his naked back. Apart from a slight curling of his lips however, he remained fast asleep. Stiles worked slowly, cleaning the blood and sweat and grime from Wolf's body. He couldn't turn him for fear he might wake, but just the same he was able to clean the wound (which now appeared to be almost weeks old). The rag moved over a certain spot on Wolf's side, causing him to twitch and huff in his sleep, much to Stiles' deep amusement. "Never pegged a werewolf for being ticklish." He murmured under his breath. In one of his less clever moments, Stiles' blew on the still-damp spot, watching with glee as Wolf _keened_ and shuffled to his other side. The half moon slowly rose into the sky, and the frost began to settle on the grass and leaves outside. Stiles piled up the fire with dry branches and twigs, breathing hot air onto his hands and knuckles as he did so. Winter was coming. It was going to be here soon.  
“What am I going to do with you then?” Stiles leaned over to check on Wolf, making sure that he was covered with the wool and rabbit pelt blanket. Perhaps it was the warm glow of the fire on his cheeks, but Stiles could have sworn that the color was returning to Wolf's skin. His breathing was deep and steady and even, his expression smooth and untroubled.  
“You're going to be cold if you stay here all winter.” Stiles whispered, though really there was no need to. Did werewolves migrate once the snows came? Did they hibernate, like a bear might? It wouldn't be easy to care for a werewolf with the snow piling up. Stiles couldn't help but remember one incident several years ago, when he had tried to hide a fox kit under his bed. He cried for a week when his father made him put it outside. "Wild animals belong to the wild." He had said. 

Perhaps... once he was better, Wolf would simply go back to wherever it was that he came from. Stiles drew his legs up to his chest, trying not to feel too put out at that idea. Really, it made the most sense. What reason would he have to stay here? Stiles huffed a sigh, his breath frosty white in the cold autumn air. 

After a moment of consideration, Stiles lifted a corner of the blanket and wriggled his way under. He was freezing, and Wolf felt as if he could do with a little extra warmth tonight. The blanket was not too large, affording little space between them. Stiles felt a little odd about this at first, as though he were invading Wolf's privacy by getting so close. Stiles' forehead rested against his shoulder, his eyes half closed. He could hear his heart now, calm and steady and strong. For the past three days or so, Wolf had quite frankly smelled like death. The odor of rotting, stinking flesh was powerful, but since his wound had closed and since Wolf's "bath" the stink had ebbed away. Now what remained was a sort of earthly musk. Not unpleasant, really. Stiles felt himself nuzzling a little closer, breathing in deep and trying to get a pinpoint on what exactly the scent was. Something a bit like cedar, and a spice that might have been detected from the kitchen during the years his mother was still alive. It was... soothing. More soothing than lying beside a mysterious killer monster should have been. He really shouldn't have been surprised when Wolf's chest rumbled with a deep, throaty noise. Without opening his eyes, he shifted forward. A powerful, muscled arm wrapped around Stiles and pulled him against his chest. After the moment of panic passed, Stiles wriggled experimentally.  
Nothing.  
He was firmly wedged there, his body flush against the werewolf, whose chin was tucked into the crook of Stiles' neck, his scruff soft on his cheek. Soon, Wolf was going to have a full mountain-man beard on his hands. For some reason, that made Stiles need to stifle a laugh into Wolf's chest.  
Between the two of them and the flickering fire, it didn't take long for the chill to be replaced with a deep, warm coziness. The air outside was simply frigid, the two formed a solid cocoon of heat between them. The night was silent, save for the soft croon of an owl off in the distance. It was too cold for bugs now, and the chorus of crickets and cicadas had long since left with the summer. Though Stiles knew he should have been more wary than he was, he allowed himself to be pulled under into a dark, dreamless sleep. 

-

When Stiles woke up, was alone. 

He was still curled up on the makeshift pallet he had constructed the night before. The blanket was wrapped up tight around him in the way it usually got when he rolled around on his bed back home.  
Ugh. Home.  
Stiles sat up stiffly, realizing that his father was probably about to start tearing Beacon Hills apart looking for him. He had gone out hunting and didn't come back! With luck, his father was gone on errand last night and hadn't noticed. Stiles blinked about in the weak morning sunlight, stretching his knotted-up limbs as he tried to take stock of the morning.  
The glen looked pretty amazing just after sunrise.  
Everything was glittering and bright from the morning dew. Birds were awake and twittering, and the sun was hitting the water at _just_ the right angle. Stiles ran his hand through his hair, now growing rather thick with a few months since his last cut.  
“Wolf?” He called out, pushing himself onto his feet. He peered back into the cave, then took a few steps out into the sunlight, keeping the blanket clamped around his shoulders. It was still warm, and not just from his own body heat, he was determined to believe.  
Was that it then?  
Was Wolf just... gone?  
Did he take off as soon as he was better? Without any sort of thank you or goodbye? Not that Stiles was expecting any sort of drawn-out or heart-felt farewell.  
There wasn't much time for Stiles' imagination to tumble away with him into the realm of the utterly absurd. At that moment the surface of the lake erupted. 

Cold, clear water poured off of Wolf's naked body. It rippled over the many facets of his back, now healed and clean of the ugly lash marks that had marred him in the past. His hands ran through his hair, chest heaving as he took a deep breath of the morning air. Wolf knelt down in the water, viciously scrubbing his scalp, no doubt trying to rid himself of the accumulated grime which came from lying half-dead in a cave for three days. There was something... different about him too. It was difficult for Stiles to put his finger on it exactly, at least until Wolf turned to face him.

He was human. 

The hair on the sides of his face had receded, his brow-line smoothed over. No longer a bright electric blue, his eyes were now a very human shade of brown. For longer than he cared to admit, Stiles stood stunned and stupefied, his mouth agape at the very sight of him. Possibly because the legends never mentioned that werewolves were capable of becoming _human_. They were supposed to be animals, monsters. They weren't supposed to walk and move and act with any semblance of higher intelligence. A race hunted to extinction and slaughtered for sport.  
His monster had turned into a Prince. This is what Stiles _should_ have been thinking.  
At the moment though, it was difficult to register or appreciate much else besides the perfectly sculpted body standing before him. It had been hard to fully appreciate while he was curled up in the corner of a dark cave, but out here in the sunlight, glistening from the water it was hard to notice much else. The girth of his shoulders and the sharp cut of his abs. The way that his hips cut off at a sharp 'v' to strong, muscled thighs. Wolf stepped out of the lake and onto the pebbly shore, leaving Stiles briefly wondering what the hell happened to his pants.  
Where did he _get_ pants anyway? Did he come from a village?  
Who exactly had been hunting him?  
What was he going to do to Stiles now that he was healed? 

These were the questions Stiles _ought_ to have been asking. But it wasn't easy to do when a towering combination of monster and muscle was advancing on him, Wolf's expression inscrutable. His eyebrows were knitted together, his albeit human gaze still quite intimidating the way it was fixed unblinkingly on Stiles.  
He took a step back, feeling his shoulders touch the cool stone of the cliff side.  
Wolf continued his approach. 

“Um, hey. So... you're looking, better.” Stiles began awkwardly. A rough, calloused hand reached out, grabbing Sitles' neck at the base. His face might have appeared human, but his stance, his walk, the way that he _breathed_ still exuded the undeniable aura of a predator.  
Wolf leaned close, and with an utter disregard for personal space the bridge of his nose brushed against the side of Stiles' neck. He breathed in deep, his hand still holding the nape of Stiles' neck. As strong as he appeared to be, the action was... almost gentle.  
“Hey. I'm glad you're alright.” Stiles forced a laugh, trying not to give away his nerves. The calloused pads of the werewolf's thumbs circled the soft patch of skin behind Stiles' ears, his forehead brushing against his own.  
“I- I saw the thing you marked on the ground and I- uh,” Stiles eyes darted about, trying to find an appropriate place for his eyes to rest. Anywhere but the warm, naked skin of Wolf that was suddenly surrounding him. His solid torso pressed against Stiles' stomach, cornering him between himself and the cliff side. At the contact, Stiles gasped in a manner that soon withered into a strangled moan.  
He felt the tiny nubs of retracted fangs brush against the line of his jaw, and Stiles choked back a plea. But whether it was to spare him or to dig in and never let him go... Stiles honestly couldn't say. Up until this very moment Stiles had no idea that a few simple touches from another person could render him so utterly undone. His heart fluttered against Wolf's naked skin, his blunt fingernails gripped his shoulders. He wanted... what did he want? Just, more. More of this. More of Wolf touching him, caressing him, biting him, _taking_ him.

This was bad.  
To be here with another man. To want nothing more than to wrap his legs around him and press so close there was no space between them. With a _werewolf_. Stiles' acts of high treason were beginning to stack up. At the moment, there was enough on his plate to warrant execution before the very court of the Royal City Corach.  
This was what Stiles _should_ have been considering.  
Really, all that mattered to him was that his father would be the one who would have to bring him in for judgement.  
His father.  
“Dad!” Stiles wriggled away, suddenly breathless. Wolf didn't let him go, but he did withdraw. He looked at Stiles with bewilderment. If he _could_ understand the tongue of man, that clearly was not the explicative he was expecting to hear out of Stiles at the moment.  
“No, I- I mean my father.” Stiles tried to wriggle free, but to his alarm Wolf didn't release him. If anything, he moved to pull him closer, resisting the struggle.  
“I left yesterday morning and I- I didn't go back! He must think I got hurt, or that I'm- I just, I have to go home.” He wriggled again, looking up at Wolf fretfully.  
“Please.” He said quietly. “You have to let me go.”  
For a moment, he looked as if he would ignore Stiles' plea. Like he would shove him against the wall and... kill him or have him, in the wilderness under the open sky for all to see, whatever he intended on doing. And Stiles... wasn't certain if he would have resisted. But ever so slightly, his grip loosened.  
“I'll come back.” Stiles promised breathlessly. “I- um, noon? Noon, I'll be back here. I promise.”  
Wolf didn't look particularly reassured, but his hands fell to his sides. Stiles seized the opportunity and scrambled, seized his bag from the cave and made off out of the glen and through the woods back to town. As he rushed past Wolf for the last time, he thought he might have seen him open his mouth, as if to speak. Later, he would resign himself to believing that it was only the product of a fevered imagination. 

-

Even before Stiles reached the walls of Beacon Hills, he could tell that something was off. He could hear the clamor of horses, the shouts of men despite the fact most were out in the fields by now. He ran inside, skidding to a halt to see the village square nearly trampled flat by troops of magnificent horses. Not the broad-shouldered and weary-eyed stock that pulled plows and powered mills that were usually seen here, but sleek and magnificent beasts that held their heads high and their manes cropped short. Mounted on them were riders who were unmistakeably of the royal party.  
A man walked by, leading two horses by the reins. He was walking and laughing with another soldier, who had a bow slung over his shoulder with a quiver of red arrows.  
Stiles was about to walk by, when he did a sudden double-take.  
Red arrows.  
Stiles would have bet everything he owned (which admittedly wasn't much) that if he were to examine the tip of those arrows, they would have the same cruel jagged edges as the one which he pulled out of Wolf's side last night. 

The Royal guard had been hunting Wolf. 

Stiles made a beeline towards his house, trying not to attract too much attention as he went. He kept his eyes straight ahead, as if the soldiers would somehow be able to detect the hard-on that he had roughly ten minutes ago had been the very essence of treason.  
“Dad?” Stiles barged inside, finally making it to his house.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up.”  
Stiles stopped suddenly. He had been expecting to see his father white-faced with worry and rage, or organizing a party to comb the very woods looking for him. Instead, he simply had that sort of what-will-I-do-with-you half smile that he put on whenever Stiles was caught doing something troublesome.  
“I, um... yeah, I just-”  
“It's alright. Calm down. Deaton explained to me what you were doing.” He raised a hand to stop Stiles, causing him to shift mid-excuse.  
“Next time, I'd appreciate a heads-up yourself next time you stay the night helping him in his shop. I know it's a long way but-”  
“No problem. You got it, dad.” Stiles assured him, nodding vigorously.  
“Good. Listen, Stiles. I want you to stay in tonight.” Rather than putting his sword back on the mantle, his father sheathed it at his side. Stiles felt a lurch of dread at the action.  
“This is about the hunting party, isn't it?” He paled, chewing on his tongue to try and bite back his guilt.  
“It is. The royal family came into town today.” He explained calmly. Stiles reeled in disbelief. He grasped his head, his eyes blown wide and mouth agape.  
“With any luck I shouldn't be out too late. Don't go running off, I'm serious. The entire town is going to be on curfew tonight.”  
“What? Curfew?” Stiles sank back into his chair, deeply troubled. The last time that his father had to enforce curfew on the town Stiles had been nine. A trader moving between towns had been attacked and killed by a bandit party. They had turned out to be nothing like the marauding wild men of the moors, just a few drunk thugs looking for fast gold. Still, the entire town was brought inside the gates of Beacon Hills, which were closed tight and sealed until sunrise.  
“Wait, during the harvest? You can't do that to the town! They need every day they can get to bring in their crops-”  
“I know that.” To his credit, his father didn't sound happy about the turn of events at all. “The order isn't from me, it's from the King himself. What can I do?” 

Stiles held his tongue, crossing his arms tightly. The King wouldn't understand. He didn't see the people in the village forced to toe the line of starvation every winter. They grew more than enough crops to feed a town three times the size of Beacon Hills, almost all of it sent away in taxes to the royal family.

“It's not for nothing, Stiles. The hunting party is tracking an injured werewolf.”  
Stiles' eyes widened, his stomach clenching with the sensation of an ice cube sliding down his throat and into his gut.  
“He was shot about four days ago, and they've been following him west in this direction since.” He explained quickly, with that sort of tone which clearly implied that this was _not_ information that the rest of the town was meant to be privy to. “So at this point, they're just looking for a body.” He pursed his lips, heading towards the door. When he reached the mantle, he stopped and looked back to Stiles.  
“Really, I suppose its lucky you weren't out last night. These monsters are always at their worst before the end.” 

Stiles nodded thickly, his heart hammering against his ribcage. 

As soon as his father left, Stiles leaned forward with his elbows on the table, groaning into his hands.  
The royal hunting party.  
That was one of the mysteries of Wolf's past solved. After all, who _else_ could have survived inflicting that sort of injury on a werewolf? Who else would have access to that sort of poison? Stiles' thought strayed to the lash marks that had cut deep into Wolf's back, the worst sinking inches deep into the muscle. The more he thought about it, the more his stomach twisted. He had to close his eyes tight, controlling his breathing to keep the panic from taking over.  
They had tortured him. For what? What had he done? Either Stiles had knowingly assisted a fugitive of the Kingdom,  
Or he lived in a land where the authority tortured the innocent.  
Stiles pulled himself to his feet, heading for the door. He couldn't think about this right now.

Not when the same people who had done that to Wolf in the first place were out there right now, searching for him. 

-

Without much in the way of a plan in mind, Stiles slipped out of the house and ducked back towards the woods. He'd get to the glen and... what? Convince Wolf to run? Begin his life as an outlaw? For a while, Stiles even wildly considered the idea of going with Wolf wherever it was that werewolves went to be safe from the Argents, deep in the wilderness where no tracker could find them. Of course, this was one of many horrible ideas that never really had any merit to begin with.  
Stiles paused by the entrance to the glen, stopping just behind the trunk of an oak tree. Down in the meadow at the foot of the hill, five imperial horses were stomping about.  
He could hear the sound of raised voices talking there.  
He could feel the cold tip of an arrow resting against the nape of his neck.

“There's a curfew on the town.” A cold, female voice said quietly. Stiles' hands shot up into the air.  
“Turn around.” She ordered.  
Slowly, Stiles pivoted on the spot, finding himself face-to-face with Princess Allison. 

She was nothing like Stiles had imagined her to be. Granted, the last time he had seen her they were both much younger. She had been a pretty porcelain doll dressed up in expensive lace and petticoats, riding her quaint little pony along the streets of Corach. Now, the only thing that set her apart as royalty was a circlet of silver, woven and braided into a light but ornate crown. That, and the way she held herself as if she was one with the world at her feet. Really, what had Stiles aghast was the fact that she wore _trousers_ , well-fitting and dark like the rest of her outfit. The arrow held to Stiles' neck was resting snugly in crossbow, which she wielded effortlessly. 

“... You're the Knight's son.” Allison lowered her crossbow after a quick once-over. Her eyes narrowed, though she seemed less suspicious and more curious now. “What are you doing out here?”  
“I, uh...” Stiles' mouth opened and closed a few times, gaping like a fish as he searched for a half-convincing answer. “I heard about the werewolf and I...”  
“Wanted to be a hero?” She said shrewdly, placing a hand on her hip. “This is no task for a commoner, farm boy.”  
 _I don't work on a farm_. Stiles thought pointedly, but knew better than to start mouthing off. Not just to a princess, but to any irate warrior wielding a deadly weapon.  
“Allison!” A gruff voice called out from the meadow. “What did you find up there?”  
“Nobody.” She called back, not taking her eyes off of Stiles. “Look, just go home, okay?” She whispered harshly to him. “You realize how bad it's going to look coming out here right now? We just found-”  
“Bring him down!” Another voice called out to her. “I'd like to have a word with him.” 

Allison sighed, closing her eyes tightly.  
“This is going to look really bad.” She grasped his forearm, pulling him along. “Come on. Just keep your mouth shut if you can, alright? And whatever you do, _don't lie to him_.  
Before Stiles could ask who exactly _he_ was, Stiles found himself face to face with the king.  
Gerard Argent.

Unlike Allison, who had changed so radically since he last saw the royal party, Gerard had not changed in the slightest. He had the same grizzled expression, one that stood on the edge between warm and welcoming and downright frightening, depending on how he felt that day. His hair was a wispy white, surrounded by a thick gold crown set with precious blood-red stones.  
Just behind him was his son, the General Argent and Allison's father. 

“Ah... the young Stilinski.” The King greeted Stiles with a smile that was meant to be warm, but somehow had him chilled to the bone. “You're just in time. Our quarry has since eluded us, but we have just found something... most interesting.” Two hunters were currently combing through the cave, picking over everything and anything from small stones to bits of animal hair. Stiles knew that there had to be one or two things there which could easily condemn him. The blood, the triple-spiral carved into he cave floor, the arrow that had come straight from Wolf's side...

“By the looks of things, it's just a vagrant's hole.” The King explained, as if it were no surprise at all that Stiles should show up at the time that he did. “Not a permanent dwelling of course, but certainly a saving grace for a wounded animal to stumble upon.”  
“Nothing here, sir.” The man stood up, kicking over Stiles' cooking pot.  
“Maybe we made a mistake.” Allison reasoned. “There was that fork in the woods back there-”  
Stiles couldn't believe his luck. Was he actually going to get away with this? He looked around, his heart pounding. Where was Wolf? Did he hear the hunters coming and flee?  
Would he have stopped and taken the precious time needed to clear the cave of any evidence that might have condemned Stiles? It all seemed like too much of a wild stretch to him. 

“You wouldn't happen to know anything that might help us here, would you boy?” Gerard spoke slowly and softly. But when he did, the entire glen fell silent. Stiles could have sworn that even the birds went quiet for him.  
He felt the attention of everyone present shift to him. Allison's words rang in his ears. _Don't lie_.  
Was he really going to arrive at three counts of treason before the end of the week?

“Your highness, with all due respect-” The General spoke up now, with a distinct note of pity in his voice. “There's certainly nothing that a kid like this could possibly do to help a werewolf in that state. He would have been near dying, if not already dead.”  
“I'm not suggesting that he helped the creature, of course.” Gerard smiled warmly, walking over to Stiles. He clapped a claw-like hand on Stiles' shoulder. For someone so old, the grip felt impossibly strong.  
“No, the son of a Knight would know better than to do something so foolhardy. However, it is a lovely coincidence that we should run into one another at this very spot. What with the Stilinski's son being a hunter of these woods, one would naturally want to see if he's noticed any unusual sights.” He said with a papery smile. His hand shifted to Stile's neck, two fingers sliding into place at a notch just below Stiles' ear.  
“Now, boy. Why don't you tell us if you've seen anything _interesting_ these last few days.” The King rumbled contently. “Think carefully, and speak truthfully.” 

Stiles fumbled for the right words, but before he could reason up some pitiful, poorly-planned explanation, they were interrupted by a newcomer in the woods. 

“Ah, there you are Stiles.”  
The party turned to see Deaton emerging from the underbrush. He brushed the briars and leaves from his clothes, smiling as if disrupting the royal hunting party during interrogation was an everyday occurrence for him.  
“Well, if it isn't Deaton himself.” Gerard's twisted smile was hardly comforting. “So this is the town that you've buried yourself in for the last six years.”  
“My work requires me to be close to nature, as you know, your majesty.” Deaton said with a nod. As if addressing the king was simply old hat for him, he turned his attention instead to Stiles.

“I thought I might find you out here. I see you were just explaining our work to his majesty. How exciting.” He spoke softly, with a certain twinkle in his eye. Deaton strode across the clearing to Stiles.  
“Good, good. You managed to retrieve everything before my campsite was torn apart.” He laughed good pleasantly, and pulled a leather sleeve out from the crook of Stiles' jacket. In a blink-and-you'd-miss-it moment, Deaton shot a dark warning look to Stiles to close his currently unhinged jaw, then turned back to the crowd. 

“As you can see, your majesty, Stiles has been assisting me in cataloging these flowers for my archives. He's been bringing me supplies these past few days to save me those troublesome walks to my cottage.”  
He opened the sleeve, pulling out several sheets of dry parchment paper, depicting the very flowers that the horses and the hunting party had just recently trampled to the ground.  
“Is that so?”  
“It's true.” The General said, retrieving one of the paintings to examine it. “When I met with Stilinksi in the village he told me that Stiles was spending the night assisting Deaton.”  
“He's been quite useful to me.” Deaton agreed. 

“These are pretty good.” Allison remarked, looking over her father's shoulder. “I always hated being tutored in the arts. I could have used some natural talent like this.” She scrunched her nose in a way that might have been becoming, if not for the lethal weapon she currently had cocked over her shoulder. At the moment, Stiles was only thinking that he too had zero proficiency for painting or drawing. If these people knew Stiles at all, they would have been able to see through the lie in an instant. 

“Deaton, if you don't mind.” Gerard motioned to the man, who continued to smile plainly.  
“Not at all, your highness.” He walked forward, kneeling in the grass before the king. He stepped forward, placing two fingers halfway down Deaton's neck.  
“Now...” He said in his usual, gravely tone. “I'd like you to tell me just what has been going on out here.”  
“I have been observing the blooming patterns of these flowers, and cataloging their medical properties.”  
“Did you see any sign of the creature?”  
“I have not heard, or seen anything of the sort.” Deaton replied steadily.  
After what felt like the longest moment in Stiles' young life, the King nodded.  
“Very well. Is this true, boy?” He turned to Stiles, who nodded at once. 

“Well then... it seems we've hit something of a dead end here.” The king drew himself up to full height.  
“We can double back to where the trail forked.” Allison swung back up onto her horse with the kind of grace that came from a warrior, not a lady. With her command, the rest of the troupe stood and assembled.  
And just like that, the hunting troupe was gone.  
Soon, Stiles and Deaton were alone in the clearing.  
Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but Deacon held up a hand, silencing him. He seemed to be watching, and listening. Though what for, Stiles couldn't tell.  
Finally, he spoke.  
“You did well, Stiles.”  
“With all due respect... what the hell was all that?” Stiles' voice cracked with weariness. With his adrenaline no longer pumping, he could feel all of the tension and stress from the moment wash over him. Deaton only smiled.  
“In my line of work, it has paid to perfect the art of telling a convincing lie. It also helped that they did not wish to see the truth. Though I haven't seen the king in many years, it would be... inconvenient for him to have lost my loyalty.”  
“That's not what I meant.” Stiles said weakly. Deaton knew it too.  
“I'm afraid that from the moment you stepped into this glen, you've been hopelessly over your head, Stiles.” Deaton chuckled, sticking his hands in his pockets. The grass crunched underfoot as he walked. “You're going to have to get used to more questions than answers.”  
“What?” Stiles said weakly. “But- that's not-”  
“Fair?” Deaton's laugh was mirthless. “Stiles, go home. Find a good woman and settle down. Your lot in life might not be the most thrilling, but the life you can live here will be safe. In this world, the more answers you seek will take you further away from that peace.”  
“... No offense. But, that doesn't sound like the sort of advice I ever expected to hear from a guy like you.”  
For a moment, Stiles could have sworn that Deaton looked just a little bit impressed.  
“It will be winter soon, Stiles. I suggest you stay inside.” 

Stiles turned, about to hotly protest that it wouldn't kill Deaton to step away from the cryptic words of wisdom for a moment, when a cold blast of air interrupted him. Riding on its back was a ballistae of white flakes, now littering the sky and floating down from up above. Stiles stood there among the dying, freezing flowers, watching the snow fall.  
Deaton was right. Winter _was_ here. 

Another flurry of wind ripped through Stiles, chilling him to the core. As it rattled through the trees and over the hills, Stiles could have sworn that along with it he heard the howling of a lone wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and left kudos! I hope you're enjoying the story so far!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize tremendously for the long hiatus in this story. School, family, and a crippling lack of confidence in my own writing all played a part in it. The words of encouragement that I received through AO3 played a huge part in keeping this story alive, and for that I thank everyone who took the time to comment. If you are still with me from the start, you are an amazing individual and I am honored to have you reading my story. If you are just joining in, welcome! I hope you enjoy it!

The winds picked up, the temperature plummeted. The birds fled and the snow fell steadily down from the sky. The lakes and rivers froze over. The villagers huddled up in their houses to try and stave off the long cold.

Winter marched along. 

Stiles did his best to keep busy. He felled tree after tree collecting firewood, mostly as an excuse to comb the woods. The glen had been silent and empty from the day the riders left it. He had returned the next day to collect his things, though not without sitting and loitering about for a good part of the afternoon, perhaps on the off chance that Wolf would show up looking for him. 

Then he came back the next day.  
And the next. 

Sharp winds seared pink the tips of the ears and nose.  
The days turned into weeks, and Stiles had to accept that really... that was all. A brief and brilliant flare of the extraordinary in his life before a long trudge through the years of simple village life. Every now and then Stiles delivered excess firewood to Deaton's cottage, perhaps looking for answers. The ones that he got were few, and unfulfilling.  
Deaton had once worked as an apothecary in the Capitol. After a few years he set off to explore the kingdom and expand his knowledge. The serenity of Beacon Hills called out to him, and he had settled and stayed. 

And no, he didn't know where Wolf was. Well, he had a vague idea, but it wasn't one that Stiles found satisfying at all.  
“He went home.” Deaton said with a wave of his hand.. “He was smart. What werewolf in his right mind would choose to stay after the Argents came right up to his front door?”  
Stiles shifted stubbornly, glaring into his tea. He hated the stuff, but had to admit that it made him feel stronger, more alert and durable against the cold.  
“Where is home... for someone like him?”  
Deaton considered it quietly, staring into the fire.  
“Anyplace far away from here. Another land, or kingdom where his kind can live peacefully. As peacefully as they do, at least.” He looked up at Stiles expectantly.  
“Do you feel cheated that he did not say goodbye, or thank you?”  
“No...” Stiles said grudgingly.  
“Good.” Deaton crossed his arms, sitting across from Stiles. “After all, he did thank you. He left without slaughtering you. You can't expect more than that from the likes of his kind.” 

Stiles trudged back out into the cold, keeping his stubborn thoughts to himself.  
Deaton hadn't been there.  
He didn't know. 

Though his visits left him frustrated, irate and unfulfilled, Stiles couldn't seem to help himself from returning as often as he could to pursue the truth.  
So he continued to wake up early, to burn away the morning hauling trees and chopping wood, lugging it the miles it took to get to Deaton's cottage through the cold. 

More questions.  
Few answers.  
He learned of wolfsbane, the plant that could cause sickness, disease and death to werewolves. The plant which had been used to poison Wolf and prevent him from healing.  
He learned to separate the some of the truth of werewolf lore from fiction.  
Yes, the Argent family knew that werewolves were sentient. No, they didn't care.

“They see the ends as justifying the means.” Deaton stoked up the fire, letting Stiles gather close at the hearth to warm up. “Before the Argents came to power, the Kingdom was ravaged every full moon by uncontrollable monsters. Not to mention the ones who used their abilities to plunder and kill without an excuse. Villages carried out hunts that often had just as many innocents as they did monsters strung up and cut in half.” He glanced at Stiles shrewdly.  
“Your 'Wolf' could very easily have been one of those, you know. He might have hurt people.”  
Stiles shied away from the idea of it. Was it possible? Yes. Did Stiles have to accept it? He certainly did not.  
“So... now innocent people don't get killed anymore?” Stiles looked up at Deaton, his hands tucked under his arms. Deaton pursed his lips tightly, turning away from the fire.  
“... Fewer do.”  
“And what about the werewolves who have never done anything wrong? Ones turned against their will, or ones who are just... just trying not to-”  
Deaton shook his head.  
“You should go home, Stiles.”  
He said gently, seeing that Stiles was becoming visibly upset.  
After that day, Stiles stopped searching him for answers.

It wasn't just because Deaton's answers were infuriatingly enigmatic. The year was approaching the darkest part of winter. Feet of snow fell overnight. The sun was bleak and useless.  
It was around this time that the power in the village shifted. Food became the new currency, and as one of the few families who produced no crops, the Stilinski family was broke. They relied on handouts and promises. They ate preserves from the basement, and huddled against the cold.  
Stiles stayed in bed for days on end, his body drawing on what little reserves of muscle and fat that he had to keep going. His mind drew on memories of a warm, solid body curled up against his. It made it a bit easier to fall asleep even when he was uncomfortable and cold.  
It would have been embarrassing for him to admit to anyone. To close his eyes and think of someone who he didn't know, someone who he barely received the time to understand. Yet in his fantasies it was always him. It was Wolf whose lips touched Stiles' neck and his chest, his broad, calloused hands on his body. The warmth of his skin pressed flush against Stiles warmed him, even on the coldest nights.  
Though when he woke up alone, the misery returned. 

Deaton had been right, that day in the glen. The more that Stiles knew, the more ill at ease he was with the world. Briefly, he considered traveling. Packing up and going to see more of the Kingdom. Perhaps even visiting the capitol city. He had recently turned eighteen, and had long since become eligible to join the King's forces as a soldier. Perhaps he could gain some prestige.  
Maybe gain the attentions of fair maidens.  
No sooner had he started to consider the notion seriously, then he overheard the rumors picking up in the tavern.  
The wild men were rising.  
Marauders from the moor coming to Beacon Hills to raise and burn villages and towns.  
Savages that lived as scavengers, looting corpses and living in filth.  
The old men of the town told tall tales of how these beast-men slept with their mothers and sisters, how they killed their allies in their sleep.  
Their teeth yellow and rotten, their skin swollen with boils and scars so thickly one could barely make out their face. They walked with cruel daggers and wore nothing but the skins of bears and wolves, walking haunched over with their knuckles dragging on the ground. .  
Stiles did his best to brush it off. After all, frightening stories like those had a tendency to crop up in the dark heart of winter, when everything was dead or dying. He didn't really take it seriously until he noticed his father growing grimmer by the day.  
Messages were arriving for him, ones marked by a seal with the Argent family crest.  
He wouldn't talk about it, but there were more and more evenings when he came back to find his father stinking of cheap alcohol. When it happened, Stiles helped him into bed, making him drink water before getting him tucked in and warm. 

Winter marched along.  
The Yule came and went.  
Even with dark rumors milling about the town, the dread was quickly brushed aside for the sake of tradition.  
Long-saved reserves of food were brought forward to give the people a brief glimpse of cheer. The villagers ran about in town, the air smelling of roasted chestnuts and twinkled with lights. Cheerful songs were sung to remind the people that the rebirth of the world would come in due time. Stiles kept an eye out in the festivities, but Deaton was nowhere to be found. He and his father enjoyed mugs of hot cider like the rest of them. Stiles even had a moment of surprise and bewilderment when the Blacksmith's daughter placed a kiss on his cheek when he wandered too close to the mistletoe, only to run off in a fit of giggles. 

That night, on the shortest night of the year Stiles made the long hike out to his cottage near the woods. He tucked a parcel containing a pair of rabbit-fur mittens against the door frame. 

The next day, there was a parcel wrapped in brown paper sitting outside their door. Inside, was an old, weather-beaten book that listed a large variety of plants and animals. Notes and details listing the unusual qualities of Goldspur and Winter Cherry. It was all relatively uninteresting, but Stiles was nonetheless touched by the gesture. Having a new book to look through did a small service to alleviate winter's tedium. By the season's end, he had read it seven times. 

Ad it always ever did, the winter began to abate just as Stiles began to forget that trees were meant to be green and the sky blue instead of slate grey. The ground thawed and turned to slush. The days began to retain a little more sunlight each evening. Talk of plowing, weeding, planting began to be heard in snippets of conversation around town. Thick, swollen buds split the ends of twigs on the trees. 

 

And the threats of a horde invasion became real.  
The first day that the apple trees began to bloom, a rider on horseback charged into Beacon Hills on the road. His horse nearly collapsed beneath him when he arrived. His skin was pale and clammy, eyes wide and wild with fright.  
Stiles' father and the city council coaxed him to retell what he had seen.  
Two hundred strong on horseback, riding out of the moors and across the plains. Soon, only the wood would separate them. They were weighted down by little, a few supply carts and not much else. They would be here in less than a week.  
He was weak with fright, but his words were undeniably that of a sane man. 

A legion of wild men were on their way to Beacon Hills. 

“It doesn't matter if the numbers were two hundred or two thousand. As few as fifty well-organized and savage raiders could easily take down this village.” Stiles trotted along behind his father as they went to the high tower of the council's hall. At this point, he had given up on ordering his son to stay behind, as he knew he would only sneak out and keep up with the current events another way.  
“These men are farmers. If it wasn't for our close vicinity to the moors, we wouldn't even have walls to protect the town.”  
An assortment of cages were arranged there, each containing a once magnificent, now slightly weather-beaten black raven. His father coaxed one out, tying a message to its leg with leather straps.  
“These were used before times of peace. I doubt they've flown since the times I was at war myself.” Stiles hung near the back. The weak light through the window accented the lines and the age of his father's face. Stiles only ever knew him as a man of peace, one who reared goats and poured over dusty letters. It was easy to forget that he was a man who had seen real battle. One who had been forced to kill and slaughter when the king called all of the young men of the kingdom to war.  
The only one to return home when it ended. 

The raven took off, and soon it was only a speck in the sky. 

“It takes less than two days for a raven to reach Argent. We'll hear their reply in three days, possibly four. With luck, we'll have reinforcements here by the end of the week. We'll have to hold out until then.”  
It was a bizarre mood that had taken over the town. During a time when the day would normally be monopolized by talk of re-seeding the ground and readying the fields for tilling, now the people bustled about digging ditches and gathering supplies. A kind of single-minded frenzy took hold of the place, though panic bubbled just below the surface.  
The walls, having fallen into disrepair over the past few years were quickly and shoddily reinforced. The gates bolts were replaced, and watch towers where hastily erected where possible. Food was stored and stockpiled. Livestock was counted, and a census of the villagers was made again and again. Stiles worked for days with little sleep helping wherever and however he could.  
Though Stiles had seen the ugly aftermath of battle through the dark shadow it had left on his father, with all the constant motion and bustle it was hard not to feel a sort of thrill. A keen anticipation for the day that the King's troops arrive. Getting the chance to fight alongside them, perhaps gain a glimpse of glory, even if they were just fighting off barbarians.  
With the few hours of sleep he managed to get each night, dreams crept into his mind's eye of performing some sort of heroic deed in the middle of battle. Gaining recognition, becoming a hero. 

This brief moment of confidence was broken four days later however, when the raven returned to Beacon Hills. Stiles had come back, muddy and tired from a day of digging ditches out beyond the walls.  
When he entered the house, he was hit by the rank stench of alcohol. He found his father slumped over his desk. His face buried in his hand, the other shakily mussing over the crisp, clean parchment from the Capitol city.  
“Dad...?” Stiles croaked, lingering by the door. 

“They denied the request for reinforcements.” Stiles' father slurred, running his hand over his forehead.  
“W-what?” Stiles felt the heat drain out of him to his toes. The truth bounced off of him initially.  
That simply couldn't be true. But the truth was what was before him, his father trying to drink himself blind out of powerlessness and loss.  
“How is that possible? I thought you said-”  
In response, his father only held up the scroll. Stiles stared at it for a moment. One of the strict rules of the household was that imperial scrolls were to be read by the Knight resident and himself alone. Stiles took the scroll and re-read it three times, trying to make sense of it.  
“They say that it would be too great a risk on their part.” His father repeated, slowly drawling over the words as his eyelids drooped. “That... sending the soldiers away from the Capitol would leave them vulnerable to attack.”  
“But... there's no threat to the Capitol!” Stiles threw down the paper, reading it again to be sure.  
“Not that anyone knows of.” His father deadpanned.  
“So they... they're just going to let the bandits burn us to the ground?”  
His father tiredly reached for the glass again, but Stiles snatched it away.  
“That isn't right!” It took every ounce of self-control that he had not to smash it into a hundred pieces. “They can't just leave us! We starve every year so they can feed the king and his men! We- we obey their laws and their rules, for what? So they can leave us to the wilderness?” Stiles felt his breath getting short and strained. He closed his eyes tight, pressing his knuckles against the walls. He carefully began to count to ten, trying to fight down the rising fit of panic. 

When he did, it wasn't the answer that either of them wanted to hear.  
“The town is on its own. We have to ready the defenses.” 

For the second time that year, the church bells rang signaling a curfew on the town. This time however, it was by the decree of the council, not the king.  
The young and the very old were rounded up and sent to the town square in the heart of the town. All able-bodied men were equipped with whatever they could muster. Unfortunately, this was not much. The production and sale of armor and weaponry was strictly controlled by the royal family. Hunters were allowed bows, arrows and knives. As a Knight, Stiles' father was permitted his sword.  
Most of the town was armed with pitchforks, scythes, and other tools of harvest. 

“We'll have no trouble fending them off at all.” Stiles scoffed, busily whittling more arrow shafts. “All we have to do is hope the marauders all line up single file and pretend to be stalks of wheat.”  
“With any luck, things won't come to blood at all.” His father sharpened his sword, looking over the different reports he had gleaned from the town council. Deep bags had culminated under his eyes, more so than most others. When this was all done and over with, Stiles had a suspicion that his father was going to sleep for a week. “I ordered the village to find everything they have of use. Any gold, silver, iron, porcelain. Every man has their price and as soon as these people name theirs, we give it to them.”

“What, surrender?” Stiles found himself on his feet, aghast. “These people don't want our gold, they want to burn the place to the ground! They want our women and our... is that worth it?” He fumbled over his words, wishing dearly that he could be as eloquent. His father looked up at him with an expression that was very old and very tired. Like an old tiger before his end, at his most dangerous. 

“We fight if we must. The lives of these people come first. And If it means saving the life of a single person here... if it means keeping you safe? I would do anything, Stiles.”  
His father spoke frankly, with utter resignation.  
Stiles worked his tongue in his mouth, feeling awkward and torn.  
“Is this the part where you tell me to lock the doors and hide in my room while the fighting takes place?” He said, keeping his hands busy by fiercely sharpening arrowheads. “That you don't want me fighting? That you don't want to risk-”  
“No. You're a man now, Stiles.” His father sheathed his sword, looking up at him somberly. “All I can do now is the best I can, and hope that I've taught you well enough to do the same.”  
He clasped a hand on Stiles' shoulder, watching him intensely. Pride, regret, and a deep sadness all were there in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance. 

At that moment, a crier ran through the town on horseback, sounding the alarm.  
The attack was about to begin. 

The day the invaders arrived was cold, windy and grey. They approached through the woods, stopping just at the edge to hide their numbers, though the sounds of horses, men, and the sound of armor clanging against armor was immense. 

Stiles positioned himself at the top of one of the crudely constructed battlements. It wasn't the soundest thing, with a tendency to sway in the wind being made quickly and crudely with little support and foundation. But that the top where he was positioned, Stiles would be nearly invisible to his enemies. He had to hope he would at least. As one of the few archers, he would serve be one of the first to attack, and one of the most vulnerable to attack should he be targeted.  
From here, he could see the entire scene laid out beneath him. The men who had been assembled and equipped for battle huddled just behind the gates, clutching their weapons, looking weary and frightened. Beyond the gates were the woods, where the horde was last said to be traveling through.  
The town was silent. The torches were put out. There were no voices in the streets. 

 

He had a full quiver of arrows. A little food, a little water, and a roll of bandages in case of injury. He had to try not to think about the fact that he had only ever taken down animals, and had barely ever considered his bow and arrow to be a weapon used against man.  
He couldn't think about his father in the front lines.  
He couldn't think about how alone they were, and the betrayal of the kingdom. 

He couldn't think about anything like that at all, when a loud, clear blast of a horn caused the birds to take off from the trees in fright, scattering in the sky. A legion of horsemen burst out from the woods, charging towards the battlements. Stiles cocked his bow, though they were still too far away to reach. The horses charged powerfully across the green. Flanking the double line of horses on either side, men sprinted alongside the horses.  
Stiles watched in disbelief at these runners. Dressed in light armor, they charged at the same speed as the horses at a full sprint. As the gap between themselves and the gates closed, the runners _pulled_ ahead of the horses, their forearms hit the ground as they ran, sprinting on all fours as if they were animals.  
Stiles' heart was pounding. He knew he had to do his duty. He had to fire. He had to stop them, those _things_ from reaching the gate. But all he could do was watch in disbelief as two masked soldiers pulled ahead, launching themselves into the air at the gate. In perfect unison, he saw them hit the ground and slam the full force of their bodies against the wall.  
On impact, the enforced gate, the bolts, the barriers shattered and were blasted back across the town. The two soldiers were unharmed.  
The town had prepared for betrayal, for attack, for the possible annihilation of their homes.  
They had not prepared for monsters.  
The horses continued to charge.  
The villagers, terrified, scattered and ran. 

Stiles had barely loosed two arrows before he was spotted and targeted by the incoming horde. If the gates were no match for these superhuman soldiers, the tiny structure Stiles had taken cover on never had a chance. Shortly into the attack, his tower was targeted. The beast-men blasted through the foundations of the tower, and it snapped like kindling beneath him. The tower swayed ominously, before collapsing with a sigh and and crashing to the ground amidst the chaos. By sheer luck, the tower struck the branches of a tall pine tree as it fell. Flinging himself at the branches, Stiles' fall was broken for the last ten feet before he hit the solid ground. 

Stiles could see the tavern burning. From the amont of smoke billowing up into the sky, he could tell that there had to be other buildings on fire. Children screamed and women cried. What seemed to be the entire town was being forced into the village square. Horses galloped and cantered in wide circles, herding them in like sheep for the slaughter. The terrified civilians were huddling up in groups under the watchful eye of the soldiers who had invaded them.

And that's what had Stiles dumbfounded with horror and awe.  
These weren't marauders. They weren't wild men.  
They stood tall and proud, wearing light armor and metal shoulder plates. Some had spikes, others without. Some had swords, others bows and arrows. They were nowhere near as polished or refined as the rows of identical soldiers that comprised the Argent's army, but they certainly didn't strike Stiles as the kind of 'wild men' that he had always been told of. They didn't wallow in ditches and eat animals raw like wolves in the forest.  
These were of their own country, their own Kingdom. 

“Drop your weapons, and you will not be harmed!” Soldiers on horses rode through the town, roaring the same commands. “Gather in the center, and you will not be hurt!” Their manner of speak was almost refined. Their dialect strong and pronounced. Amidst the strange speak however, Stiles' ears keyed in on one voice in particular. 

“Do as they say!”  
“Dad!” Stiles flew across the scorched grass, spotting him from across the square. In a moment he was wrapped around his father's chest.  
His father smelled like smoke. Dried blood had been hastily wiped from the corner of his lip, and a dark bruise was already beginning to swell the side of his cheek. But he was alive. He was still in one piece.  
“It'll be alright, Stiles. Just... I have to go with them-”  
“What, no!”  
“All civilians in the square!” A soldier grabbed Stiles' shoulder, yanking him away from his father. Stiles thrashed and bit and fought, at least until he heard his father's sharp command.  
“Stiles!” He lashed. “Stand down!”  
Stiles looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes.  
“I'm not going to see you get hurt. Just... just do as they say.” 

He didn't take his eyes off of his father until he had already been pulled away out of sight, urging the rest of the town to comply for their own safety. 

 

The smoke had blocked out the sky, making it impossible to discern the time of day. Perhaps it was somewhere around sunset. There was a strange orange light near the cusp of he horizon. Soldiers dotted around the perimeter of the village square. They didn't speak, or attack. They didn't even seem to be looting the city in particular. They weren't interested in the town's women.The villagers, tired and frightened, avoided them. Stiles mulled listlessly about the square, helping families reunite with one another, doing his best to treat injuries from what he had learned in bits and pieces from Deaton.  
Deaton. Stiles knew he was just acting out of self-preservation, but his betrayal was felt keenly just now. Though his absence could have meant anything, Stiles knew in his gut that Deaton had survived. He was too clever, too wise to be herded up and boxed in. 

“You, you and _you_ , come on.”  
They had been at this all evening. Rounding up individuals in groups of three or four, leading them off to their camp outside the village walls. Always it was the same kind of person. Young men, not quite yet adults. They were pulled away from loved ones, parents and wives and siblings. Those who resisted were beaten back.  
Stiles plucked at the grass, feeling angry and restless and useless.  
What was being done with them? Were they being led off as slaves? Killed? Recruited to join their army? 

“You. Come on, lets go.”  
Stiles looked up, blandly taking in the sight of the soldier before him. He was a tall, intimidating, and surprisingly _clean_ for someone who had come from across the Western moors. Perhaps that was just because Stiles was in such a horrid state. He had been cold and starving for days. He hadn't even noticed the mud accumulating, with other things on his mind. At this point in the evening, the fight had been soundly drained from him.  
His fight was gone.  
He only wanted to know one thing. 

Stiles got to his feet, facing the soldier.  
“Where is my father?”  
In swift response, a fist landed squarely in Stiles' gut. The wind was sucked out of his lungs, and he doubled over weakly, gasping for breath. As darkness spotted his eyes, the soldier seized him by the scruff of his collar, dragging him off across the square.  
“Alright, I'm going, I'm walking!” Stiles wheezed, finally gaining some sense of self. The soldier strode across the town, out of the city walls and to a makeshift camp that had been erected just outside of town. Horses were tethered and cared for, large supply carts arranged in a shell formation protecting the tents. He didn't let up, nearly pulling Stiles off of his feet on one or two occasions as he charged forward.  
Finally, he stopped in front of the largest of the tents, easily larger than three or four stitched together. He pulled back the cloth door, throwing Stiles to the ground. Instead of hitting dirt or stone, Stiles fell against a soft floor of furs and pelts, though it still didn't help with his still spinning head. The air smelled vaguely of exotic spice. That, and some other dusky, smoke-scent that struck Stiles as strangely familiar.  
“You can send the others back, Jackson.”  
A deep voice spoke up from the far end of the tent. Stiles fought to get his lungs working properly, sitting up on his knees with his frozen hands grasping the soft ground.  
“Sir?”  
“Give the orders for the troops to withdraw from the town. We have what we came for now.” 

Stiles sat up, blinking owlishly. In the lavish tent, a man was sitting on a carved oak throne. He was garbed in fine armor, featuring heavy shoulder guards and a helmet sitting at his feet, artistically sculpted into the likeness of a wolf's head.  
Stiles realized he knew this build, this body. He looked up, realizing with pale horror that he knew that face.  
It was Wolf. His Wolf.  
The solider who had brought Stiles in nodded and turned to leave.  
“Right away, Prince Derek.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally resurrecting this monstrous thing. It's been quite a while since my last update, and hopefully with exams out of the way the delays won't be quite so few and far between. For any old readers, you are blessed angels for sticking with me. For new readers, welcome! I hope you enjoy.

“You're alive.” Stiles gaped up at him in disbelief.   
“Sorry to disappoint.” Wolf, or rather Derek, spoke. His voice was rich and deep, with a sort of gravelly tone hat Stiles could practically feel rolling over his skin. Stiles reeled, trying to process it all. Him here, leading the troop that had taken Beacon Hills so soundly.   
“You... you're the one that ordered Beacon Hills to be destroyed?” Stiles needed to hear himself say it out loud, but the words tasted wrong.   
“It's still standing. Mostly.” Derek shrugged. He rested his head on his hand, knuckles against his temple. His warm, hazel eyes were alight, appraising Stiles closely and intimately. It was the sort of thing that normally might have had Stiles flushing and breathless, but at the moment all he could feel was a mounting surge of rage powered on by fear.   
Stiles was exhausted, battered and half-starved. His throat burned with bile that had risen as he had been forced to watch families be torn apart from one another.   
It was the sort of thing he knew he needed to reign in. To choke down for the sake of his life and the life of his father in this delicate moment.   
Unfortunately, Stiles had never been particularly good at that sort of thing.

“No, I- I can't believe it! Deacon was right about you!” He rounded on Derek, fists clenched. The wolf prince sat up a bit straighter, possibly startled by the outburst.   
“You're a monster, all of you! I helped you! I thought I could... and now I-”   
“Helped me, is that what you were doing?” Derek laughed harshly, sharply. It was enough at least to set Stiles back. “Come now, I think we're past the point where you stretch the truth.” 

Stiles was about to sharply demand what this man was talking about, when the flap of the tent opened once again. 

 

“Sir.” The General who had dragged Stiles in returned. Derek righted himself, standing tall, his visage human once again.   
“Yes?”   
“We've secured the town, taken a census. As well, we've apprehended the emissary to the King.” 

Stiles couldn't pretend to know what was going on, or what his fate was. In that moment he acted on pure reflex.   
“That's my father!” He struggled to his feet, starting for the General.“What did you do with him?” His fingertips only grazed the General's shoulder, and the next moment passed in a blur. 

Jackson's arm swung around so quickly, Stiles didn't realize how or when he was hit. The next moment he was on the floor, gasping for air, tears stinging his eyes and his head reeling from the fall. He really should have learned, struck down twice in one night by the same man. 

“You do not _touch_ me, human!” Jackson snarled. He lunged at Stiles, but was intercepted before he could take another step. Derek caught him by the neck, smoothly and ferociously pinning him to the ground. This time, when he roared it was different. The deep, _massive_ sound shook the entire camp site. 

“ _And you do not touch what is mine!_ ” 

Stiles was backed up against the chair Derek had been sitting on when he arrived. Jackson was flung back, his chest and neck exposed in a gesture of desperate fealty. For a long moment, nobody moved. The men and horses were silent outside, though perhaps Stiles simply couldn't hear over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Though Derek appeared human, his stance, his gait all exuded an aura of incontestable power. Stiles watched as Derek seized Jackson by the front of his chest-plate, pulling him off of the ground and to his feet. 

“Now.” He spoke slowly. “I will speak with the Knight. Send in Boyd to take care of our guest.”   
Though Jackson was visibly affronted by his dismissal in favor of Boyd, he submitted with a curt nod. His face was pale and he looked visibly weakened by the authority of Derek's command. Scrounging up his manners, Jackson politely excused himself, and left with dignity.   
Stiles was still curled up by the chair, his heart pounding and his body trembling very lightly from nerves.   
“... What are you going to do with my father?” 

“You know, you could stand to worry about yourself from time to time.” Derek poured a wine from a flask into a goblet. He brought it over, crouching down to offer it to Stiles. It was astounding the difference that overcame the Prince in such a short amount of time. From ferocious to, soft. Almost gentle. Deep brown eyes watched him without malice. Stiles wanted to be so many things at that moment, fierce, intimidating, demanding. He was starved for answers. But he was hurt and weak and overcome by how hilariously outmatched he was at this moment. 

“Okay...” Stiles slowly began to uncurl from his position. “What are you going to do with me?” He carefully took the cup, mostly to pacify his captor. Still, he couldn't deny that his throat was burning, and the of the hysteria wasn't helping the pounding of his heart. With Derek's prompt, Stiles took several large gulps.   
“You-”   
“You're not going to hurt him, are you?” Stiles blurted. He couldn't help it. Derek turned and looked at Stiles with an expression of magnificent disbelief. Clearly, he was not one who was accustomed to being flagrantly disrupted.   
“And what if I did?” He demanded, rounding on Stiles. “It wouldn't be a very effective conquest if I left the Knight resident alive, would it?”   
“You can't!”   
“I assure you, I can.” Derek seethed. “After all, I am a _monster_.”

Stiles gritted his teeth to hotly retaliate, though before the words could form, a sudden wave of dizziness overcame him. He shook his head, holding his temples. A forced, artificial calm was creeping over him, numbing the tips of his fingers and toes, working their way in.   
Slowly, Stiles look to the empty goblet lying on the floor.   
“You... poisoned me?” His voice was very quiet and small. Dark spots danced in his field of vision. No, there was an aftertaste of hazel   
“Your father is going to be fine, Stiles. But that's more than I can say for you.” Derek calmly picked up the cup as Stiles' knees sank to the floor.   
“You are going to pay with your body and your life for what you tried to do to me.” Derek spoke sweetly, almost serenely. Stiles blinked up at him, his jaw slack, his mind fuzzy. 

“... I waited for you.” Stiles worked to get out the words before the poison finished him. A tear leaked out of the corner of his eye. Derek froze, watching him with an expression of bewilderment. “Every day... I waited because... I said I would come back.”   
Stiles was dragged under into unconsciousness before his head could hit the floor. He was out before he could register Derek's arms closing around him, keeping him from falling. 

“So he's the one we came here for?”   
Boyd had entered the tent, addressing Derek with a cool mask of indifference.   
“You know it's more complicated than that.” Derek growled softly. He didn't take his eyes off of Stiles as he spoke. Boyd crossed his arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed with their hostage. 

“He's going to be the key to bringing the Argents to their knees.” Derek looked up at Boyd, his eyes glowing a subtle red. “I want it to be known... nobody is to touch him without my explicit permission.”   
Boyd nodded curtly, waiting to be dismissed. The prince carry the peasant boy to a corner of the tent where furs and blankets had been piled up on a goose feather pallet.   
Derek could say what he liked about strategy and war games. But in that moment Boyd saw something break through the stoic mask that he had wore from the day he returned from his time in Alluida. There was something softer there, a crack in the wall, insight to a more broken man.  
-

Stiles woke up with his head throbbing.  
His mouth was dry, his body hurt. The air was cold with night, but he himself was warm.   
As he came to, he realized his body was wrapped up snug in a thick fur pelt. His arm outstretched and bare. Stiles groggily focused on it, realizing that for some reason he had no feeling in the arm at all. He watched as a metal tool picked out bits of gravel and rock from where it had taken the impact of his body falling to the ground out of the sentry tower.  
“I've applied an numbing poultice to your arm. It will wear off by the time I'm done.”   
The metal tool was set down in a box, and a small bottle was taken out. 

Stiles craned his neck up to see a familiar face.   
“Deaton...?” He croaked.   
The doctor smiled sadly down at him, dabbing a clear ointment onto the wound.   
“You... work for him?” At this point in his day, Stiles didn't think there was really anything left that could surprise him. Perhaps it was the anesthetic, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to feel particularly betrayed or hurt. He was just... tired.   
“I work for nobody, and everyone. I am neutral.” Deaton spoke calmly, slowly and evenly. “I have walked in the halls of King Argent. I have been consulted by werewolves and monsters, the likes of which you can only at this time imagine.”   
“Derek...?”   
“I haven't seen him since he was very young. But yes, we are acquainted.”   
“I should have listened to you.” Stiles rasped. Deaton took out a needle and thread from his box. When Stiles realized its purpose, he turned his head away to fight the spin of nausea in his gut. “You were right...”   
Deaton sterilized the needle with a puff of flame from a strange device, looking distant and thoughtful.   
“I imagine your father never told you.” He said calmly, beginning to stitch Stiles' arm shut. “Perhaps he did not want to encourage you towards delusions of grandeur. It's practically a thing of legend in some of the other towns of Argent's kingdom. The fact that the King will pay five thousand gold pieces for every werewolf body presented to him.”   
Stiles' eyes flew open. He tried to sit up, only to have Deaton firmly push him back down again.   
“ _What?_ ”   
“Twice that for any one brought to him alive.”   
Stiles was stunned. Ten thousand gold pieces... that was more gold than Stiles would ever see in an entire lifetime.   
“So...” Stiles closed his eyes. “When I last left him...” 

It fit together far too well. Stiles had left as soon as Derek was better. As soon as he could ensure that he had been snatched from the clutches of death.   
He left, and the cavalry rode in. 

“He thinks I only saved him to sell him to Argent.”   
“It would seem so.” Deaton clipped the thread, finishing the job.   
“But that's not true!”   
Stiles dragged himself into an upright position, his numb arms swinging uselessly at his side.   
“I never even knew about any sort of reward! I wasn't trying to sell him to the King, I wasn't trying to hurt him!”   
“I don't doubt your motives, Stiles.”   
“Then please...” Stiles looked briefly around the small tent, then back to Deaton. “Help me.”   
Stiles felt a cold clench in his gut as Deaton began to calmly pack up his things.   
“I _am_ helping you, Stiles.”  
He stood up, parting the tent to leave.   
“Deaton, wait!” He called out. Stiles tried to stand to hurry after him, only to find a manacle fastened around his ankle, fastened to an iron peg in the ground. “Deaton!”  
But that was it, he was gone. Deaton walked out of the tent, just as he had walked out on Beacon hills on the eve of the storm. Stiles blindly pulled at the iron chain on him, securing him to the ground. Furtively at first, then with increased rage and panic and terror. It didn't give. He knew it wouldn't. Every emotion rushed forward in out in a hoarse scream that tore at his throat until his lungs were burning and there were dark spots in his eyes. 

-

The healer left the tent with a sigh, his eyes fixing fast to the Prince, waiting outside.   
Derek's brow was furrowed, his eyes unfocused and arms crossed tightly over his chest.   
“I trust you heard.” Deaton said, pulling on a pair of gloves. The two walked together, or rather Derek left and Deaton fell into step alongside him.   
“I did.”   
“I can't imagine you detected many fluctuations in his voice or his pulse.”   
Derek didn't respond, looking off into the distance. 

“Derek.”   
Deaton's expression was stony and cold.  
“What?” Derek demanded, snapping. “Are you going to tell me that the way I acted was rash? Heartless? That I'm a _monster_? Apparently you've been teaching him some things.” 

“I merely warned him about the ways of the world. I presented to him a notion. Tonight, I believe you were the one who confirmed it.” Derek snarled, the tips of his fangs showing as he did so.   
Derek's voice had no effect on Deaton. While others trembled, he remained cool and unruffled.  
“Derek, I know it couldn't have been easy. How long were you under Argent's hand? Four, five months?”   
He spoke quietly, with a sort of sympathy that unnerved the young prince.   
“Long enough to break lesser men. I've seen enough innocents turn into savages under the influence of Gerard's conditioning.”   
“I would rather not discuss it.” Derek said promptly, stalking off again.   
“It's a miracle that you escaped with any ability to feel at all.” Deaton said softly. The prince paused.   
“I suppose it isn't surprising you would want to cling to that which has the potential to nurture your humanity.”   
“That is not...” Derek huffed, glaring around the campsite before rounding on Deaton. “That is not why I have to take him, you know that. How was I to know who his father was?”   
Every muscle in Derek's body was taut, ready to lash out and strike. But Deaton was not an ordinary man, and certainly not one of his pack whom he could break with a word.  
“What I'm doing...” Derek drew back, demanding composure of himself. “What I've started is bigger than me. Than him. Bigger than _you_.” He cast Deaton a pointed glare. “I know better than to think I can contain you. But if you betray me to Argent-”   
Deaton held up a hand to silence him.  
“You know that is not my way.” He frowned, glancing back to the tent where Stiles was held. “Consider the boy's well-being the price for my continued neutrality.” He remarked offhand.   
“I wasn't going to-”   
“Yes, and you've been doing such a good job so far.” Deaton smiled pleasantly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.   
Deaton made his leave after that. He took no provisions, carried nothing on him but a satchel and the cloak on his back. He simply turned and strode out of the battlements and into the night. Derek watched him go, feeling a certain chill. 

 

When he was a child, Stiles often wondered what lay beyond the forests outside of the walls of Beacon Hills. He knew well enough that to the West was the girth of the kingdom; an expanse of similar towns of varying size all of he same make of his own. But the East... those were the wild lands. Often Stiles entertained the notion that the forest might go on forever. Now he could see that it eventually gave way to bleak moors. Here were gentle rising and falling hills, dry sun-dappled grass broken by patches of rock and gravel. With the forest behind them, there was no trace of town. Their road was the grass, trodden down by the hooves of the cavalry that whisked Stiles off into the wild lands. Stiles sat on the back of a mule-drawn cart, his legs drawn up against his chest. This seemed to be his designated spot for the journey, here with the potatoes and barrels and other provisions. He had not been placed in chains, though it was made quite apparent that he simply had nowhere to go. On either side of him he was flanked by the soldiers marching home, either riding on horses or walking with their swords strapped to their sides. 

Even if he was leaving his home as a prisoner, he still felt a shiver that felt quite similar to a thrill.   
It only lasted a moment however, before it was swallowed up and crushed by the all-encompassing despair over his situation. His confusion. A full day had passed and still he had been given almost no answers or explanation as to his predicament.   
What was he there for?   
What did they want with him?  
The wind cut easily through the thin coat that he wore. Reflexively, Stiles thought of the thicker autumn coat that he owned, the one lined with rabbit fur.   
The one still sitting in the chest at the foot of his bed, that he would likely never see again.   
Stiles ran his hands through his hair, feeling panic rising in him once again. He forced himself to think of something else. 

 

Like what had occurred last night in the tent. Long after Deaton had left, and his panic attack ran its course. He was curled up tight on the furs, paralyzed with exhaustion but unable to sleep. He must have laid there for hours before he heard the rustle of the tent's front entrance be pushed aside.   
Wolf, Prince Derek, moved silently. Stiles hadn't been able to turn and look, yet he knew it could be nobody else.   
Fortunately, Stiles' body was too worn to work itself up into another panic. He had to force himself into the deep, easy breathing of someone deeply asleep, even if every muscle was locked so tight he was trembling. How could he not? He was chained to the ground in the tent of a monster king, who probably kept him around just so he could have something hot for breakfast.   
The footsteps came closer. They were slowly approaching his side of the tent.   
Claws (or perhaps fingertips, if terror had been clouding his judgement) brushed the back of his neck, and he couldn't bear it any longer. Stiles flinched on reflex, a small pitiable cry slipping past his lips.  
That was it, this was how he would die.   
Curled up like a kitten, back to his enemy, helpless to fight back.   
He could have died all over again out of shame.  
At the sound, his captor abruptly withdrew, moving away.

The wagon lurched, pulling Stiles out of his reverie.   
What _had_ Derek been doing? Since that night Stiles had replaced the pet name “Wolf” with “Derek” quite easily in his mind. He realized now that Wolf had only been a delusion.   
“Stiles!”   
A figure bounded up into the wagon, causing Stiles to jump back in surprise and alarm. After gathering some composure, he saw that one of the soldiers had swung up across from him, and was now sitting on one of the potato sacks. The mule pulling the wagon snorted and brayed, affronted at the added weight.   
“Uh, hey.” Stiles looked around, wondering what he had missed.  
The soldier sitting there couldn't possibly have been much older than Stiles was. He was a bit short but stocky and muscled. Unlike the others he wasn't wearing a helmet, and only the barest minimum of studded leather armor. A gold medallion was fastened to his chest with the symbol of a wolf's head, the same as Derek's helmet.   
“You're Stiles, aren't you?” He leaned forward with an eager smile.  
“Y-yeah.”   
Stiles had a feeling he was missing something important. The rest of the soldiers in Derek's battalion all had treated him so far as a commodity as interesting as a sack of flour. They barely looked at him or spoke to him, and when Stiles tried to pester them for information, he came close once or twice to receiving the same answer Jackson had given him in Beacon Hills.  
This boy was jovial and energized, appraising Stiles with bright eyes.

“I heard a lot about you.” The solider flopped back to sit in the wagon across from him.   
“From who?” Stiles watched in a bizarre kind of fascination as the young solider pulled out an apple from a nearby barrel. He held the first in his teeth as he fished out a second, tossing it to Stiles.   
“From Derek.” He swallowed thickly. “Well, not a lot. More like mentioned you, once or twice.”  
“Derek, huh? None of that 'Your Highness' stuff with him then?” Stiles turned the apple slowly in his hands. “Who are you?”   
“Oh, right! My name is Scott.” He held out a hand for Stiles, watching him with a curious, careful gaze.   
“Scott, huh?” After a moment, Stiles took it. “I knew a Scott once.”   
The boy's lip quirked slightly, though his expression remained neutral.   
“It's a pretty common name.” He agreed, sobered now. “What happened to him? Your friend?”   
“How did you know he was my friend?”  
“Oh! Um, just the way you mentioned him, you know. It sounded like you two were... familiar.”   
Stiles would have to take his word for it. He had a feeling that whatever trials were approaching him, he wouldn't survive them without a friend on hand. At the moment, Scott appeared to be the only one up to the task.   
“Right. He... he died. A long time ago.”   
“Oh.” Scott echoed himself, looking quite crestfallen. Still, the open and clear sympathy of this Scott warmed him, strangely. The soldier shifted a bit, glancing around as if to make certain he would not be overheard.  
“Listen, I'm sorry about your village.” He turned to him with fresh earnestness. “I mean, it's probably too soon to talk about, isn't it?”   
Stiles took a slightly too-large bite of his apple, shrugging blandly.   
Yes, it was too soon.   
“We were ordered not to kill anyone.” Scott continued. “We didn't, I mean some stuff got set on fire. And the people who fought back, we kind of had to-” He floundered, watching Stiles glaring at the floor of the wagon, purposefully stuffing his face with so much of the fruit that he wouldn't be able to say exactly what vile thoughts he was stewing over at the moment.   
“You know, I'm from Argent's kingdom too! I was born there.” Scott veered.   
“Mn?” Stiles made a noncommittal sort of sound.   
“Yeah. I worked the capitol city Corach.”  
“... Did you ever see the palace?” Stiles finally managed. Scott practically bounced where he sat, thrilled that Stiles was reciprocating.  
“Yeah! I worked in Argent's stables! I even got to see the princess- I mean, you know. Princess Allison. We talked. Once or twice.” Scott rubbed the back of his neck which had suddenly gone scarlet.   
“So why did you leave?” Stiles was barely present, but the talk was a rather welcome distraction.   
“Leave Argent's Kingdom? Well, I couldn't really stay with my... condition.” Scott squirmed.   
“Condition?”   
“You know...” Scott glanced back to face him, his eyes flashing briefly gold.   
Stiles flung himself back in alarm.  
“I'm sorry.” Scott laughed, sitting up. “I thought you knew.”   
“How the hell was I supposed to get that?” Stiles was ruffled, but strangely not as panicked as he ought to have been to learn he was sitting three feet away from a honest-to-goodness werewolf. “Is everyone here a werewolf?” He gestured wildly to the procession.   
“What? No!” Scott laughed again. “There are only like, I don't know, seven? You'll see when we get to Alluida.”   
“Alluida. Is that, what that's the country east of the moors?”   
“Weird to hear, right?” Scott's eyes widened. “You should have seen the look on my face when Derek told me about it in Corach. I thought he was just making stuff up so I'd help him out of a tight spot he was in.”  
“Yeah...”   
Stiles ran his hands through his hair, trying hard to process the lie that he quickly learned that just about everyone in the Kingdom soundly believed. His hair was still standing on end at the thought of being in such close proximity to a werewolf. The last one he came across, after all had brought him nothing short of a disaster. Not in the way one would imagine. The violence and savagery was of an entirely different beast than that which the stories had warned him for. He watched Scott warily, as if he might suddenly turn wild and attack. But watching him, he found himself feeling downright absurd. Unlike Derek, who exuded a natural aura of the beast, Scott seemed downright docile.

“It was you, wasn't it? The one who saved him.”   
Scott's voice was low now, leaning towards him.  
Stiles paused, stunned. He fidgeted and itched. “Yeah. That was me.” He answered tightly. He obviously wouldn't say it to one of Derek's own men, but it was turning out to be the biggest regret of his life. What he wasn't prepared for was the look of immense _relief_ that washed over Scott.   
Those big brown eyes were pretty tough to deal with. In a lapdog kind of way.

 

With Scott, the trip across the moors became far more bearable. The two either rode in the mule wagon or walked on the horse-trodden trail when their legs became stiff. Scott always managed to snag extra rations for the two of them. An extra helping of bread or cheese. Stiles hadn't the slightest clue how he was managing this, as the broad-shouldered and bull faced soldier who dealt out their meals had a keen eye and a quick strike for anyone who tried to get more than their share.   
Soon, the gently rolling moors had all but swallowed up the woods that served as the border to his home. As they drew further away, Stiles felt himself become plagued with curiosity and a mounting panic. Since that night Beacon Hills was taken, Stiles had not seen so much of a glimpse of Derek. He imagined that he rode ahead, at the front of the procession as a position befitting of his rank and importance. But with the absence of his person so too came an absence of answers. What did the Prince want with him?   
What was going to happen when they finally arrived?   
Was Derek waiting until they were before some sort of court or ritual before exacting his revenge?  
On the second afternoon, Stiles finally worked up the courage to ask.   
He and Scott were sitting a ways off from the procession, each eating a pheasant leg that Scott had managed to scour from some unknown location. Stiles had seen the birds flying off in the distance or scurrying about the tall grass, but he couldn't imagine that they would be able to take down enough of the birds to feed the entire procession evenly. 

“Is he going to kill me, Scott?” He finally got out, sudden and sharp as pulling out a knife.  
“What?” Scott looked so bewildered that Stiles almost laughed. “What makes you think that?”   
“What is it then?” Stiles pressed.   
“Well, we aren't really supposed to say...” Scott bit his lip. The inner turmoil was painfully brief. Stiles noted that whatever loyalty Scott felt towards his Prince, while sincere was easily trumped by a higher moral code.  
“Derek is planning on taking out Corach by creating a stalemate with Argent's army. Over the course of the summer his men will be infiltrating surrounding villages like Beacon Hills, convincing them or, _persuading_ them to renounce Argent and swear allegiance to Alluida. That's why we needed Beacon Hills, as an outpost. There are only so many times soldiers can cross the moors undetected. The best person to do it too is the authority of Beacon Hills, the knight resident.”  
Stiles swallowed, his throat gone quite dry. This was turning out to be a vastly different explanation for his abduction than he had anticipated.   
“That's... that's why we need you.” Scott shrugged.  
“As ransom.” Stiles rubbed his temples, trying to take it all in.   
So it had nothing to do with Stiles saving Derek, or his perceived slight at all. No, it was another matter entirely. He was being taken away to be thrown in a dungeon cell while his father was forced to turn traitor against his oaths and the crown.   
He wouldn't do it, would he? 

On cue, the last words his father spoke to him came readily to his mind.  
 _If it meant protecting you, I would do anything._  
Despite the savory pheasant leg, Stiles suddenly found himself quite without an appetite. Strange as it may seem, but it seemed somehow more frightening than being put to death.   
Death was a simple matter. Stiles saw enough of it back at home. Those who died of illness or malnutrition to feed the endless granaries of the king. 

His father was only a simple Knight quietly living his life on the border of the kingdom. He didn't have a lordly estate or a stable full of horses. If his name had ever been a noble one, it had certainly faded from renown over the years. But what he lacked in coin, he made up for in fierce devotion to his own sense of pride. Next to his family, it was all he had to treasure in the world.   
Had Stiles not been in the picture, he knew his father would gladly fall upon his own sword rather than tarnish the name which he had sworn to serve. 

“Hey, you okay?” Scott asked delicately. The company was getting ready to move on again.   
“Yeah.” Stiles looked up at him with a veiled smile. “I just... I'm really hungry all of a sudden.”   
True to form, Scott spent the rest of the day sneaking Stiles food whenever he could, from wherever it was he was acquiring it. Each time he snuck Stiles a piece of fruit or a hunk of bread, it sent a sharp stab of guilt to his gut because he knew now it was all in betrayal. 

For two nights now, Stiles had laid awake long after the soldiers had gone to sleep. Each evening after camp was set and supper was had, he and Scott would find a soft patch of grass to set out their bedrolls and curl up against the chill. It had been no coincidence that each night Stiles chose a spot as close as he could to the edge of camp, within sight of the guards.   
As Scott snored softly beside him, he laid awake and watched the rotation of the guards. The long stretches in between when the night was deepest and the warm winds were most soothing. Each night, Stiles noticed a pattern.   
By the third rotation, the watch fire would burn low to embers. That guard would have to leave to gather more firewood.   
It didn't take long, barely twenty minutes to walk to the supply cart and then back again.   
It wasn't a reliable opening in the slightest, but he couldn't afford to wait any longer.  
“Whereyougoin?” Scott murmured sleepily. He shifted a bit as Stiles slowly drew away.   
“I'm... going to relieve myself.” He said quietly. “Just, um- go back to sleep, Scott.” He slipped his satchel on over his shoulder, drawing on his coat. “You're dreaming.”   
“Hm. Okay, Isaac.” He yawned, rolling over to his side. Soon the steady, deep breathing resumed.   
Stiles waited behind a bush for the guard to make his move. As soon as he was out of sight, he darted off and made for the darkness. 

After the lights of the camp had faded behind him, Stiles allowed himself to slow out of the breakneck sprint and allow himself a moment to breathe. Only a moment, however. He had to keep moving. If he was lucky, they would have until morning before realizing he was gone.   
If he wasn't...  
Stiles tried not to dwell on what might happen if Derek's soldiers managed to find him again.   
He also tried not to think about what they might do to Scott once it was discovered he let Stiles slip away.  
He jogged across the dark ground, slow enough to avoid tiring out too quickly or tripping on loose stones, but as quickly as he could allow. He rationed the small leather bag of water that he had saved from that evening, drinking only just enough to keep his body going as he pushed on.   
Somewhere well past midnight his body managed to plow past a point of exhaustion, finding a spare reserve of energy in some desperate well of his being.

Instead, he took the time to remain focused on a plan.   
They would find him in Beacon Hills. He and his father wouldn't be able to stay there. They could go, where? To Corach to warn the king of the warfare that would in a few months, engulf his lands? The King who could have stopped it all before it began if he had protected his realm from the start and sent men to defend Beacon Hills?  
No.   
Stiles could scarcely conjure any loyalty for the King now.  
He and his father would leave Beacon Hills, strike out on the road. Find some new home and new place in life.   
Derek could have his war, and Argent could have his kingdom. Stiles had enough of knights and monsters and glory. 

The sky lightened in the east, steadily shifting from pale blue to rose in preparation for the sunrise. Mists hung low on the moors, even as the first trees of the woods came into sight. Seeing how far he had managed to come gave Stiles a final rush of adrenaline needed to clear the border into the forest. His legs felt like lead, and dark spots danced in front of his eyes. He had been awake now for well over a day, and on the move for a good part of that. Every fiber in his body was driven well past the point of exhaustion. He had driven himself into some untapped well of energy, his body approaching numbness to his state. In the pre-dawn, the forest almost looked unreal, as if it were the last few lingering moments before a dream when he might wake up in his own bed with this entire mess behind him.   
After a bit of searching, Stiles found a fairly sheltered patch of bushes that would have to do for the next few hours. Though he knew in the back of his mind he would be safest if he found a river to walk upstream in to lose his scent, or hid his rations up a tree, just the thought of forestalling sleep a moment longer was excruciating to consider.   
Besides, he could only afford to steal a few precious hours of sleep. Soon, they would notice he was gone. They would be after him.  
He was taken by a dreamless sleep the moment his body hit the ground.

Stiles huffed and yelped, jumping up ramrod straight. The initial jump of “Where am I?” and “How long was I sleeping?” Seized him with more force than usual, as custom for anyone who falls asleep in a strange location after a particularly stressful day.  
The first thing Stiles realized was that he must have been out far longer than he would have liked. The sun was on the wrong side of the sky, already on its descent well past noon. The heat of midday had already settled in thick around him.   
A low, baleful sound drew his attention.   
Stiles turned to look, and his breath caught in his throat. 

A massive brown bear was slowly making its way through the underbrush, not forty yards away.   
Perhaps it was exhaustion clouding his mind, but the creature seemed to be larger than that of a horse. Its massive shoulders and forelimbs were each the size of Stiles' chest. Its jaw hung open to, panting in the summer heat hot and ragged. Black, unintelligent eyes fixed unblinking at Stiles as it made its way through the wood towards him.   
After freezing a moment, Stiles scrambled. He grabbed the rucksack which held his carefully hoarded provisions, hurling them far away to the bear's left. If the bear wanted his food, he could have it. It would give Stiles a chance to make a break for it in any direction. For all the good it did, Stiles might as well have thrown a rock. The bear slammed its massive forelimbs to the ground, shaking the earth with a roar.   
Stiles' father had once taught him what the best procedure was for surviving a bear attack, whether one should try and make themselves appear larger and yell, or lie still and play dead. It all depended on whether the bear was attacking due to some perceived threat, or because he viewed you as prey. At the moment, any and all of these indicators had fled from his mind, leaving him unequipped and frozen.   
The first strike came as a massive wallop to his side. In hindsight, it was probably only a fraction of the bear's real strength, but it was still enough to blind him with pain. At the very least, Stiles remembered to throw his arms over his head, protecting it as he crashed against the undergrowth.   
Don't run. If you run, its instincts to charge and fight will take over.   
That was the only bit of advice he could remember as the massive creature ambled over to him, huffing and snorting. A massive paw pressed down against Stiles' upper arm, the entire weight of the creature threatening to shatter his shoulder blade. He could feel the hot breath curl against his neck, somewhere above the haze of unbearable pain. 

What followed was a crash like a peal of thunder, and suddenly the weight was gone. The bear's center of balance was undone, sending it staggering back, crashing into the undergrowth.   
There was someone standing over him, arms open and claws extended. 

Stiles forced himself to sit up against the tree, his movement hindered by the black, crushing pain against his lungs. He could only watch, wide-eyed as Derek threw himself against the massive animal. 

Stiles peered over his trembling, throbbing shoulder, blood pounding in his ears. he bear loped off, bellowing forlornly off into the brush to nurse its wounds. The fight had been short and decisive. Derek was standing in the clearing, his fine clothing shredded down then middle, his hair tussled and side streaked with mud. The wolf's breathing was heavy and ragged, his muscled shoulders heaving with each breath.  
Derek turned, his glowing red eyes focused sharp on Stiles.   
He turned and lashed out. In a moment he was before Stiles, his claws sinking deep into the trunk of the tree behind him, causing it to groan to the roots.   
“You fool!” He snarled. Fangs flashed inches from his face, the wrath of the alpha prince raw and unconstrained. “Are you really so eager to defy me that you would sacrifice your own life?”   
“I wasn't...” Stiles choked out. He felt something warm fall onto his leg. He realized with a stab of horror that the four-inch wide gashes left on Derek's chest were bleeding onto him. “Derek...” He gasped, white faced and stricken.

The red lights left his eyes. The werewolf chuckled, dry and humorless.   
Stiles attempted ask what was so funny, but all that he managed was a sort of quizzical whimper.  
"Its the first time I heard you use my real name." Derek sank down against the branch of a tree, looking drained.  
In a brief, wild moment, Stiles weighed his odds of taking off again. Even if there was no poison arrows to slow him down, Derek was injured. If he made a run for it...  
But to where? Beacon hills? That was Derek's outpost now. It had taken the prince less than a day to find him. It would be only too easy to track him down again.  
The hopelessness of Stiles' situation crashed down over him, and despite it all, or perhaps because of it he found himself laughing.  
"I guess trying to run off was pretty dumb, huh?"  
Derek snarled quietly, despite his now human form. It came from the deep pit of his chest, low and strong.  
"Going out on your own. That was the foolish thing to do." Derek's eyes were half closed, but they were fixed on Stiles. "Who knows what time of monsters... you find in the woods." He spoke between heavy breathing.   
A laugh choked out of Stiles. Had Derek just tried to make a joke? Maybe not quite a joke, since the situation was still far from being properly funny. He had a feeling that the moment would have been much more enjoyable if he still wasn't pale from blood loss and steadily losing more.   
"Derek, are you-?"  
"Ill be fine." He finished. "I just... need water.”

Derek's horse it so happened, was grazing in the next clearing. The massive black stallion pawed at the ground and huffed nervously at Stiles' approach. It took a bit of coaxing before Stiles could get close. Stiles placed a hand on the muscled, sun-warmed coat of the horse, patting it gently before removing the water skin from its saddlebags. It was somewhat difficult to do with one hand. The other arm was still nearly paralyzed with the dull, throbbing pain that the bear had left on his shoulder. In the back of his mind, Stiles realized that it was quite likely a bone had been fractured or broken, but with the events of the last two days, it was as if he had simply run out of fear. He would have to deal with it in just a moment, not quite now. There were very few and sparse provisions. Derek had wasted no time in taking off once he realized Stiles had run away.   
In hindsight, it was really for the best.   
Had Derek taken much longer...

"Thank you, by the way."  
Stiles opened the water skin, kneeling down at Derek's side. "I mean, I'm not sorry for trying to run off, but I suppose if you hadn't come after me-”   
Derek huffed, silencing Stiles with a small grunt of a response. Stiles lifted the cap of the water skin to Derek's lips, helping him drink. He could have sworn that he saw those lips twitch into the beginning of a smile. His eyes opened slowly, looking over Stiles' face.   
“I never did get a chance to thank you. For saving me, last fall.”   
Stiles bit his lip, looking away from Derek.   
“I think you've done enough.” The words slipped out before Stiles could have the good graces to reign them in. He could have sworn he saw Derek flinch, if only in the corners of his eyes.   
“I promise... I do not enjoy watching you suffer.”   
Stiles had a feeling it was the closest thing he was going to get to an apology.   
“You have to understand. This is not about me, or you. This is about taking down a tyrant.”   
“Argent.” Stiles slid down to sit on a smooth boulder across from Derek. The wounds he had received from his fight were finally beginning to close, smoothing over clean. Tattered clothing and a smear of the bear's blood being the only evidence that a brawl had taken place at all.  
“Because he's a Hunter? Is this- what, is this some sort of revenge thing?”   
“Have you ever seen a werewolf murdered in the Capitol arena?”   
“Once, when I was very little, maybe.” Stiles shifted uncomfortably under Derek's stern gaze. The wording had made him immediately uncomfortable. There, in the shining city with the clean streets and the tall towers, it was treated like a sport. Brutes found in the deep corners of the wilderness were hunted down by valiant knights and died before a cheering crowd in the arena.  
Evil was vanquished, good triumphs.   
The city rejoices.  
 _Murder_. The way Derek had put it resounded so oddly with him. Werewolves weren't murdered, they weren't people...  
Old prejudices clashed against new truths, and suddenly Stiles felt exhausted all over again. His head bowed against the weight of it, his shoulders sagged.   
“You're injured. I cannot permit you to continue on alone.” Derek stood before Stiles, one again speaking with the air of a prince about him. “When we return, and you are healed, ask Scott to tell you his story.” He took Stiles' hand, guiding him to his feet with surprising gentility. “Ask him about Isaac. If, at the end you still believe in Argent's ways, I will send you with an escort back to Beacon Hills.”


End file.
